


The Darcys of Pemberley - Lizzy

by stellamoonewrites



Series: The Darcys of Pemberley [3]
Category: Pride and Prejudice, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice (1995), Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst/Fluff, Colin Firth - Freeform, Darcy - Freeform, Drama & Romance, Elizabeth Darcy - Freeform, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Feels, Fitzwilliam Darcy - Freeform, Fluff, HEA, Historical References, History, Modern Era, Not Your Usual Fan Fiction, Original Character(s), Original Characters - Freeform, Pemberley, Pride and Prejudice References, Romance, Slow Romance, historical setting, modern reworking, otp, wetshirtscene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-03-30 02:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 82,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13940589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellamoonewrites/pseuds/stellamoonewrites
Summary: Lady Elizabeth Darcy is the mistress of Pemberley, unfortunately this was bequeathed to the Historical House Society under conditions of her grandfather's will, so now she lives there with her teenage daughter, Harriet, and best friend, Maggie Wickham. Her main worries are the matter of the new roof and her ongoing feud with senior curator, Joyce Hutchinson. All is well until a Hollywood production team arrives in Derbyshire to film a new adaption of Pride and Prejudice, and Lizzy finds herself living in close proximity to Harriet's dad, who broke her heart, and fascinated by the handsome actor, Benn Williams, who is playing her great-great-great-great-great granddad, Mr Darcy.Set in the dramatic peaks of the Derbyshire countryside, Lizzy's story twists and turns throughout her own lifetime and the history of her very famous family.





	1. Chapter 1

This was not happening today. Lizzy slouched down in the water, hoping for the voices to go away. The bath was warm and bubbly, and she poked her toes out of the water, admiring the sparkly pedicure that had come courtesy of her daughter the night before. It had taken nearly forty minutes to run this bath, relying as she did, on hundred and fifty year old plumbing and a water heater that had been installed at least a decade before Hitler invaded the Rhineland. The voices were loud. Getting louder. American? Yes, definitely American. Reluctantly she eased herself out of the claw-footed enamelled bath and grabbed herself a towel from the back of the door, tying up her brown curls on top of her head. Slowly, she looked out into the hallway. The vocal couple; a large, stocky man with a rucksack on his back and a small, rotund woman wearing a sun visor wrapped around a massive bouffant, were currently gazing at her collection of prints on the wall, flicking through the guidebook to see exactly what they were looking at.

“Hi! I think you might be lost,” she said cheerfully, still dressed in her towel and hoping that they would think it was a quirky English custom.

The large gentleman turned around quickly, almost hitting his companion across the face with his bag. “Oh, hello there,” he exclaimed, moving toward her with his hand outstretched, and which she shook firmly. “You know, I think you might be right. Can you point us in the right direction?”

“Yes, turn straight about and out the front door, then turn left and back down the stairs”, she pointed out the directions, checking his understanding.

“Well, that’s just great, thank you for your assistance, Miss-?”

Lizzy hesitated, “Darcy”, she said firmly.  “It’s Miss Darcy.” She was always reluctant to reveal her name to visitors, especially American ones. They were always super excited to meet her, thinking that she was best mates with Kate Middleton, and she could visibly see the excitement dull as they realised that she was a regular person, just like them.

“Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you _Lady Elizabeth Darcy_?” exclaimed the companion, who had immediately become flustered, her face now matching the same colour as the flamingo on her t-shirt.

“Yes,” Lizzy smiled warmly. “I have to say that your t-shirt is fab. I love flamingos!” She offered a friendly handshake to the woman, who was now desperately trying to curtsey. “Please, there is no need to do that, honestly.”

“Oh my gosh, I read in the book that you lived here,” she began, reaching into her bag for the guidebook she had purchased at the gate. “This is amazing – wait until I tell the girls back home that I have met a real life English Lady, my friend Evangeline Tennant will eat her hat!”

“Well, I am very pleased to meet you…?”

“Crystal, Crystal Treacher. This here is my husband, Hank. We’ll not disturb you any more, Lady Elizabeth, and we will be on our way, but this has been such a real delight for us, a proper pleasure and we are so happy to have made your acquaintance.” She leaned forward and gave Lizzy a big, US style embrace. “And if you are ever in Texas, you should most definitely call and visit us.”

The Treachers turned around, making their way down the corridor and to the left as instructed, talk of princesses and duchesses and the imminent green-faced envy of Evangeline Tennant escaping from their lips. Lizzy laughed as the door closed. This was the second time it had happened this week – the first time she had just sat down for lunch and had a mouthful of jacket potato as Cheryl and Bob from Wichita bowled through the door. It was the start of the tourist season and the house was starting to welcome coachloads of visitors every day, apart from Wednesdays when the house was closed, and she could eat in peace. She grabbed some clean clothes from the laundry pile and walked through to her bedroom on the north side of the house. From here she could see all the way down the Italianate gardens and see the small car park as it begun to fill for the day. It was nearing eleven o’clock and she had volunteered to work on the ticket desk on a whim a few days before, forgetting that she had a stack of case papers to go through and so much work from her actual job as a probate attorney at the little practice in Lambton where she had worked for ever. Still, she loved welcoming people to Pemberley and it was worth it for the free chocolate fudge cake she could snaffle from the tearoom at the end of the day.

“Harriet?” Lizzy called out towards her daughter’s bedroom. “Harriet! Where have you put my boots?”

Harriet Darcy awoke with a jump, heard her mother yell and then closed her eyes and tried to fall back to sleep. It was early – super early, _well_ before eleven – she knew because of how the sun was shining through the curtains and where it was positioned on the wall, illuminating the face of Bradley from Smash, but not quite reaching the smouldering face of Heathcliff on the Wuthering Heights poster that was directly opposite her bed. It was Saturday, and she had already heard her mum clunking the old plumbing to life, making coffee, doing laundry, watching crap telly. She just wanted to sleep.

“HARRIET SOPHIA DARCY!!! GET OUT OF BED NOW!”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mother in want of some article of clothing that you have accidentally not returned after borrowing it from her last week, will continue shouting until she receives a response.

“Alright!! I’m up!”

Lizzy came in without knocking and walked over to the window and opened the curtains, the early spring sunshine blazed through. Harriet was hiding under her Harry Potter duvet, only a fluff of her hair was visible, and a be-socked foot poking out of the bottom of the bed. She took a moment to pull the sock off her daughter’s foot, before tickling the bottom gently. Harriet’s foot curled and retracted back under the safety of the cover.

“You need to get dressed, you promised Maggie you would help out in the tearoom this morning and people are already here.” Lizzy put a pile of clothes on the chair next to the dresser, grabbed some cups and dishes, before walking back out into the hall.

Harriet sighed before putting a pillow over her head and giving a silent scream. She hated working in the tearoom, especially as she had to dress up in regency costume and serve afternoon tea complete with cake stands and fancy tea to foreign tourists who wanted to take her picture for Instagram, and tip her with currency that she wouldn’t be able to spend. Her friends from school - Summer, Olivia and Caitlyn thought it was a bit weird that she lived in a house that you could pay to visit, they all lived within five minutes of each other on one of the new housing estates in Lambton. It could have been worse though, she could have been shoved off to boarding school like her cousins, Tom and Josh, or at some Swiss finishing school like her mum’s sister, Imogen, who was only two years older than her and had already appeared on Made in Chelsea and appeared on celebrity websites, dressed in designer clothes where you could practically see her cervix. Harriet didn’t really know Imogen that well, didn’t really know any of them that well at all, apart from the occasional visit to France at Easter or seeing each other at family weddings, but she imagined that Lady Imogen would look down on her brown waves, un-microbladed eyebrows and ability to get out of cars without flashing her underwear.

Looking on the bright side, at least she didn’t have to travel far to get home and, if she was nice to Maggie, she could leave early and take some carrot cake and a cheese scone with her. Plus there was the pay – the Historic House Society paid quite well and Harriet found the six pounds a hour that she earned came in quite handy for her current eBay addiction. She was currently bidding on an embroidered clutch bag from the 1920’s, which was ending this afternoon. She didn’t know why she was fascinated with handbags, but they were so personal and so unique to each owner, you could tell a lot about a person from their bag;  it had started when her great-aunty Lady Sybil, who was a hundred and four and lived in a home in Kympton, had given her one that had belonged to great-grandma Millicent, now she had been an all-round party girl, suffragette and general badass. Strong women seemed to run in her family, she thought, and Harriet Darcy felt destined to be the latest in a long line of obstinate, headstrong girls who roamed the halls of Pemberley House. When she was a bit younger she was often found hiding in the Velvet Bedroom where the picture of Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy hung, and she often wondered what her life was like here at this house. When everyone had gone home she would wander around the house where so much of her family history had taken place, and she could almost hear the laughter of the previous residents echoing down the corridors.

 “Did you find my boots, Harry?” Lizzy enquired with a shrill tone, walking into the kitchen, where her daughter had left her a cup of coffee on the table.

“Yeah,” she said, absentmindedly eating a piece of toast, whilst playing on her phone.

“And…?”

“God, in the cupboard in the gallery where we always keep the boots!” Harriet was concentrating on her game and did not have time to remind her mother where things were kept.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Harriet! Joyce is going to go mad – we’re not allowed to keep anything in there anymore! I told you this last week when you borrowed them,” Lizzy stomped off out of the kitchen, before returning with the boots.

“Joyce is always mad,” Harriet commented. “I don’t know how you will be able to tell the difference to be honest.”

Lizzy tried to hold in a laugh but failed. “You can’t say that, Harry!” She took a gulp of the coffee. “You can’t blame Joyce, she’s always gets a little bit tetchy when we have to close for filming.”

Harriet was used to filming taking place at the house, it happened a lot. Last year they had been sent to Spain for a week by a production company when the director of some avant-garde science fiction thriller had fallen in love with the house and wanted to stay there, obviously the society had acquiesced to his request and he took up residence in their flat whilst they had enjoyed a four-star holiday in Barcelona. Lizzy got up from the table and moved closer to the window, arriving on site were three large coaches with blacked out windows and silver livery. “Damn, it’s the Barnabus tour,” she sighed, before grabbing her fake pearls and the Cath Kidston ‘Darcy’ print scarf that she wore whilst on desk duty. “I didn’t know they were due this weekend, no wonder Joyce is agitated! You better go straight to the Orangery and ask Maggie where she wants you today, I’ll go and see if Kate and Jeff want a hand on the ticket desk.”

The two Darcy ladies finished their toilette quickly before joining the remainder of the Pemberley staff downstairs and playing their roles to perfection, as always.


	2. Chapter 2

Maggie Wickham knew one or two things about Lizzy Darcy that the paying public did not. Firstly, she knew that the string of pearls that she wore to greet visitors was fake. Maggie never understood why Lizzy felt the need to dress like an upper-class soccer mum when working the desk at Pemberley as she did every Saturday afternoon, but she did know that it impressed the card-carrying members of the Historical House Society to see their ‘Lady Darcy’ dressed up as they expected. She knew Lizzy didn’t mind obviously, it was something that she did quite often throughout the year – always posing for photographs and playing the convivial host as generations of Darcys had done before her.

Secondly, Maggie also knew that behind Lizzy’s perfect RP and noble name, there was a regular Derbyshire girl who betrayed her upbringing by dropping her ‘aitches’ and saying ‘I’ instead of ‘one’. She was so unlike the other members of her immediate family; Winston had been one of the old guard – eighty-three when he died, he had been brought up with a stiff upper lip and a silver spoon thrust firmly up his backside, but he had been kind and generous and his upper-class curmudgeonly ways developed into a wonderful juxtaposition against the laidback manners of his granddaughter.

Lizzy had been five when her parents divorced, her home in Ealing divided by lawyers and fees. Her older brother, Charles, was already happily settled at boarding school, and nobody knew what could be done about Elizabeth, who was too young yet to be sent away. Her father stayed in London to be closer to his job as honorary chairman of a large department store, whilst her mother returned to her hometown in Connecticut. Hugh refused to let his ex-wife take her out of the country, whilst Patricia was busy planning her second marriage to a member of the Kennedy clan and did not consider remaining in England an option. Reminded of his own childhood Winston decided that he would look after his granddaughter until her parents could come to some arrangement and so the household at Pemberley took the slight, curly haired girl with piercing grey eyes and an enormous grin under its wing.

As much as the estate was Lizzy’s home, it was Maggie’s too; most literary loving visitors to Pemberley were usually astonished to see that a Wickham worked in these hallowed halls – it was almost sacrilegious - but as much as Fitzwilliam Darcy’s family had played their role in the continuation of the estate, so had George Wickham’s. Maggie was the great-great-great-great-great grandniece of that much maligned gentleman and her family had always resided within the grounds, despite their relative’s dubious reputation. Maggie had been the grown-up twelve-year-old, introducing the young girl to their home with all its special places, hidden secrets and history. It was really something to live here, Maggie thought, and she instilled a reverence for the draughty old house in Lizzy, something that she always found hard to forget.

 “Here you go, your ladyship!” Maggie walked over to her friend, handing her a large mug of coffee emblazoned with Colin Firth’s face and ‘I Love Mr Darcy’ on it.

“Ooh, you are an absolute jewel, Miss Wickham!” Lizzy laughed, taking a large swig and grabbing her bag from behind the counter. The room at the back of the house was light and airy and at some point in the past it had been the head housekeeper’s room, although it had been the ‘shop’ for as long as Maggie or Lizzy could remember. “I think I have some jammie dodgers in here-”

“You did, but Harriet pinched them when you were out doing a meet and greet with the Barnabus lot,” Maggie smiled, rearranging some guidebooks that weren’t in their proper places and tidying up a display in the centre of the room. She paused for a moment to take stock of the day; it had been the busiest of the season so far, and they had been rushed off their feet since the gates had opened. Poor Harriet had been serving afternoon tea all day in full regency costume and had suffered in the heat of the Ale Cellar tea room on this uncharacteristically hot Saturday in April. “Don’t worry though, I sent her upstairs early with a club sandwich, two pieces of chocolate fudge cake and a Twix.”

“Which she will have eaten all to herself,” Lizzy chastised. “Not thinking that her poor mother might want to enjoy the succour of Mrs Reynolds’ chocolate cake that has been her only joy in life for the past ten years.” She postured herself dramatically on the ticket desk, hand swept over her face like dramatic heroine. “Nobody suffers like I do, Miss Wickham. No-one.”

“Wow,” Maggie deadpanned. “Just. Wow.”

Lizzy let out a loud, hard laugh which echoed out into the courtyard and made an elderly lady jump. She snorted, “Oh dear, best not upset the guests – that will be more points for Joyce to poke me with.” Placing her cup down and grabbing a Pemberley postcard and magnet, she made her way over to the sour-faced woman with a beatific smile upon her face, freebies in her hand and ‘the pleasure of meeting you’ on her lips. Maggie smiled to herself, Lizzy Darcy could be about fifteen different people in one conversation, but she was always so wonderfully Elizabeth when it mattered. She watched as Lizzy charmed the old lady and took some selfies with the rest of the party, telling them information about the house and hugging them as if they were old friends. Maggie pulled her phone out of her pocket and read the email again just to make sure that it was real; she was through to the final stage of the application process… if she was successful it would mean that everything would change at Pemberley, as she wasn’t one hundred percent sure that she was ready for it.

 

It was a wonderfully warm evening and the fragrance of the coming summer was held in the air like a promise. The flowers in the Italianate Garden were beginning to bloom and up in the Rose Garden you could see the tiniest buds beginning to emerge. Lizzy walked over to her best friend and threw her arms around her shoulder as they walked down the back stairs and towards the office to sign out.

“Maggie…” she said in her most persuasive voice. “It’s such a nice night, don’t you think?”

She smiled and laughed softly, “Lizzy, you know that we got in serious trouble last time.”

“Yes,” she whined. “But it was totally worth it…”

Maggie rolled her blue eyes, she was forty-four years old next month and if she couldn’t risk the occasional disciplinary for drinking wine and eating takeaway on the lawn, then what was life even about.

 

The last guests were being politely ushered out of the gates, as the permanent staff began to close the house for the day, walking around the rooms covering furniture with dust cloths, turning off the fake coal fires that burned in each room, and resetting the house for the day. Walking through the rooms when no-one was about should have felt eerie, but it didn’t.  The volunteers and staff and the full army of people that it took to keep the house up to HHS standards was vast – but nowhere near the amount that it would have taken to run the house in its heyday. At night when the house had settled down for the evening, Lizzy often wondered how it would have felt being completely packed to the rafters, with people on every floor and living in every room. It had only been about a century earlier with all the young men called up to war, that Pemberley had reduced its staff down to a minimum, a small plaque marking the courage and valour of those lost estate boys and men in the garden. The Darcys always made an effort to remember everyone’s name, and even though Pemberley was no-longer theirs, they still held the Annual Ball on New Year’s Eve for the HHS staff paid for by the estate as had been the tradition since 1660 when George Darcy returned from exile in France.

For Lizzy living here in this vast house was a normal thing, during her schoolyears she was often chastised for turning up her CD player really loud in the Wyatt dining room and dancing to something inappropriate or running the length of the Long Gallery using the faces of her ancestors on the portraits lining the walls as markers, but it was her home – everything was tied to Pemberley and even though living her was part of her very essence, but every once in a while she felt swamped by the responsibility of it all, as if the house was holding onto her so tightly that it was getting harder to breathe.

 

The moon was high in the sky as Maggie and Lizzy finished their second bottle of wine and nibbled the cold remnants of their takeaway, eating as they did on the small slope directly in front of the south front of the house – the Pemberley View, immortalised in countless paintings, pictures, and on film. Small fairy lights, which had been placed there for a wedding a few weeks ago, twinkled in the bushes to the right of them, the moonlit house reflecting in the lake in front of them. It was a beautiful evening and the pair found that that after their earlier chatter they were now sitting in amicable silence, appreciating the beauty of their grand surroundings.

“Why can we only ever get pizza?” Lizzy questioned. “I really fancied a curry!”

“Because,” Maggie stated her faux schoolteacher voice, “Pizza Bella is the only place that will deliver here after hours without reporting it to She Who Must Be Obeyed.”

Lizzy always became indignant about Pemberley’s Boss Lady and her strict observation of rules. She sighed, then shrugged, “I don’t know what Joyce’s problem is. It’s not like I’m going to whip my boobs out and start running through the flowerbeds, and if she is looking for historical accuracy then every Darcy I have ever read about has always thought it a brilliant idea to dance on the front lawn,” she slurped her wine. “Even her precious Fitzwilliam Darcy who, by the way, could be a bit of an arsehole, used to get drunk occasionally… And he also looked nothing like Colin Firth, did he? Did he?”

Maggie shook her head, smiling; the picture of Fitzwilliam Darcy which hung inside the Oak Suite showed a man with a furrowed brow, dark eyes and a chin you could cut glass with; casting agents around the world did him a great favour by choosing such handsome men to play the role. In 1995 when Darcymania had been at its height, they had put the portrait of him in the drawing room, it had been a mistake, most visitors were disappointed to see the real-life gentleman, who whilst still handsome, was nothing like his television counterpart. Eventually Winston paid for a local artist to paint an oil of television’s Mr Darcy and the end of each day was spent removing underwear and tributes from the shrine that had appeared.

“Darcy and Elizabeth did stupid things occasionally – Miss Austen wrote them very well, Maggie, very well indeed.” She was shaking her finger now. “They loved each other, obviously, but it was just a normal marriage and they argued and pissed each other off, and she got mad one time and left him, went to stay at Dunham; there are all these letters she wrote. It would have been a much better book if Jane bloody Austen had put all of this stuff in there, you know.”

“I think Jane Austen put enough in the book, don’t you think?” Maggie had studied the book for her A-Levels and she remembered that some parts were quite shocking – especially as there had been no attempt to disguise the identities of the main players.

“A book is life with the boring bits taken out, but she took out some of the more dramatic bits. The bits that made it real.”

“And you have proof of this, do you?” Maggie asked teasingly.

Her thoughts immediately recalled the tall tales of Lizzy’s youth, particularly one where she attempted fruitlessly to convince her grandfather that a large silver tureen had always been full of mud. Lizzy folded her arms, her chin jutted out and she sat on the rug, indignant, the true Darcy inheritance streaking across her face.  

“Come off it, Lizzy, if there was any evidence of Darcy and Elizabeth doing anything particularly extraordinary then we would have known about it long ago,” Maggie reasoned. “All of those researchers from Austenation squint over the archives every year trying to find some more information about them. The only thing they found of any interest was that Darcy spent three grand on a pineapple…which he didn’t even eat!”

Lizzy laughed out loud, she loved the story of the pineapple, which had been family-lore and then confirmed by fact. “You know what,” said Lizzy, still laughing. “I bet I fell asleep one-night reading Jane Austen fanfiction and got all confused... It sounds like something I would do, doesn’t it?” She got up from the rug on the lawn, collected the rubbish in the carrier bag she had brought with her, after fighting to remove it from her trouser pocket, and began the short walk back to the house. “I’m off to Bedfordshire,” she said, turning.  “Goodnight, Miss Wickham.”

“Goodnight, Lady Darcy,” Maggie joked.

“Oh, piss off!” Lizzy laughed. “You know full well that it’s Lady Elizabeth!” She did a little curtsey and began laughing again, her laughter echoing against the sandstone walls of the south front of the house and down into the ravine.

Maggie watched as her friend walked through the wrought-iron gates of the garden entrance and across the courtyard. She grabbed the blanket and started the short walk across the lawn and up to her own apartments in the stable block. As she walked through the rose garden and up the steps, she turned around for a moment to look at Pemberley – resplendent in the moonlight, it was beautiful and stately and everything the seat of the Darcy family should be, but Lizzy’s statement had concerned her, because if there were private letters that had belonged to Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, then these were of national literary importance and should be preserved for future generations, they couldn’t just be kept under the bed in a cardboard box, which is where her friend kept everything of any significance.

Lizzy watched from her living room window to see Maggie reach the stable block and sent her a quick text message to let her know that she was home safely too. It was something that they always did, despite their proximity to each other. She sat on her bed, reaching under it until she found what she was looking for, in her hands was a small wooden box, not really of much significance, but inside were bundles and bundles of letters, fastened with yellow ribbon, safe and sound for nearly two centuries. These were the letters written by Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy and her husband, from the time of the failed proposal at Hunsford parsonage to the day of his death. Lizzy had made a mistake tonight, and she knew that the letters would no longer be safe under her bed. She knew their importance, knew that the women from Austenation would love to get their hands on this priceless correspondence and the stories about the Darcys that it told. She had spent her teens reading them in the small room off the dining room and she knew that she did not want the private words of her ancestors sprawled across the newspapers in the Sunday supplements, or printed in books to be given as gifts on Valentine’s Day. Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth may have been immortalised forever by Jane Austen, but she wanted to keep the most private parts of their lives sacred. For now, the secrets of her great-great-great-great-great grandparents were safe; Lizzy was keeping a piece of history all for herself in the great house that once belonged to Mr Darcy of Derbyshire.


	3. Chapter 3

The late spring sunshine was beating through the tin roof of the sports hall. Harriet yawned widely, she was now three quarters of the way through the GCSE Maths paper that she was fully aware she was failing wildly. She was glad that her mum had chosen to send her to Lambton High, a small average comprehensive school with middling exam results and a toadying headteacher. It had been a bit strange to begin with, especially as Mr Evans had made a particular point of making everyone in the school aware of who she was on the day she started, which was doubly strange seeing as it was the first day for most of friends from St David’s Primary too and she didn’t see why she warranted special attention. She tried to focus on the exam…algebra… when would she ever need it? Why would she need it? She rubbed her eyes and looked up at the clock, only fifteen minutes to go and then she would be free.

Hugh Darcy had been disgusted that his granddaughter was not to be educated at a London prep school, but soon furnished his consent after his daughter said that she would be happy for him to foot the bill if a private education was his wish. The Duke was already saddled with copious school bills for his youngest daughter, Lady Imogen, who was growing steadily wilder and the more he thought about it, the more he conceded that state education would be an interesting experience for Harriet. She was the most like him of his grandchildren and, after all, it was what he paid his taxes for now that the government had closed the offshore loophole.

“Pens down,” projected the invigilator from the front of the hall. There was a collective sigh from her year group and the immediate scraping of chairs along the floor. Funny how sports halls smell during exams, Harriet thought, like feet, desperation and silent farts. She collected her phone from the plastic tray and switched it on, taking a minute to wave to Summer, who rolled her eyes from across the room, tossed her blonde curls and gestured that she would meet her outside. The phone beeped four times: Mum, Mum, Mum, Dad. Oh, that was rare. Harriet sent her mum a quick confirmation text and made a mental note to reply to her dad later, before walking down the school corridor and out into the amazing freshness of the May afternoon.

Lizzy pulled up outside Starbucks in the shiny maroon people carrier that she managed to borrow from Donald, the grumbly groundskeeper who lived at the main gatehouse with his wife, Anne. The car was his pride and joy, recently purchased by the estate and emblazoned with ‘Pemberley Estates’ and the shiny gold crest of the Darcy family, which also appeared on t-shirts, mugs and magnets available to purchase from the gift shop. Lizzy’s own ancient Fiat had been slowly deteriorating over the past few months and she was getting tired of it deciding to strand her halfway down the main drive when the engine would fail and refuse to sputter back to life. She had found herself in trouble during the weekend of Mr Darcy’s Regency Christmas when the car, loaded with Christmas shopping, had stopped dead at the ticketing kiosk, holding up the three coaches and stream of visitors desperate to see local actors re-enact scenes from Pride and Prejudice, whilst eating millefruit biscuits recreated from a recipe that had been found in the archives. Not only had she been firmly told off by Joyce over the walkie talkies as she watched two helpful teenagers from the kiosk and a coach driver move the car out of the way, but she had then had to walk the length of the driveway with handfuls of shopping bags. Conveniently, Harriet’s phone had been on silent that morning and so she did not bother to listen to any of the seventeen irate voicemails left by her mother.

It was Harriet that Lizzy was meeting for Starbucks – well, not exactly meeting, but collecting. Lambton didn’t have a McDonalds or a Subway for teenagers to loiter about outside, so they all loitered about inside the converted pub, which capitalised on American tourists, and ordered Frappuccinos whilst taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi. Harriet said goodbye to Summer and Caitlyn with a multitude of hugs, even though they would be sending each other snapchats all the way home and meeting in town the following morning, and climbed into the car, passing Lizzy the grande skinny latte that acted as payment for the journey home. The trouble with living on an estate that wasn’t built by Redrow was that it was very hard to catch a bus home, and even though Harriet was increasingly enterprising about making her own way back to the house, there were times when she had to rely upon her mum’s good nature, or her guilty conscience, depending on what day it was.

“How did it go?” Lizzy asked, as she slurped her coffee and manhandled the gears.

“Maths, innit,” Harriet sighed. “It just has to be a C.”

“It just has to be a C?” One eyebrow was raised, and Harriet groaned.

“Yes, Mum! I only need a C for AS Levels, you know this.” She harrumphed loudly and focused her attention on the constantly flashing phone in her hand, before turning the radio station over even though it was the middle of Women’s Hour. They passed over the cattlegrid and turned onto the bridge, before settling onto the long, grand sweep of the drive. The flag was flying on top of The Cage, signalling it was open, and a few straggling visitors were slowly making their way down from the ancient hunting lodge, the bright colours of their jackets and wellies popping against the burnished hues of the ancient deer park. 

“Did you hear from your Dad today?” 

“Yes,” Harriet confirmed. “He’s coming to stay with Maggie next week, so I guess we’re probably going to Manchester for the weekend.”

“Oh.”

Harriet noticed the change in her mum’s mood immediately and, somewhat wisely, changed the radio station back to Women’s Hour. They pulled up at the East Front gate, parking the car in Donald’s signposted space. Walking silently together under the gateway and around the circular driveway, Harriet nudged herself into Lizzy’s shoulder and the two Darcy ladies hurried inside for a Netflix binge and a microwave Biryani.

* * *

Lizzy Darcy and Matthew Wickham had grown up together at Pemberley. Closer in age to each other than to the very grown-up twelve-year-old Maggie, they had made natural playmates and could often be found running up and down the halls or up the hill to the Cage, looking for conkers underneath the massive horse chestnut tree that stood next to it. Maggie and Matthew lived with their mum, Barbara, who had acted as Winston’s secretary for years before she accidentally fell in love with the kindly steward John Wickham, and promptly married him. Unfortunately, he had dropped down dead two days before his fortieth birthday and it fell upon his wife to raise her young daughter and baby son in the small apartment above the stable block that they had once shared.

Matthew was always a little bit in awe of Lizzy, but she didn’t really notice him like that until after they had left high school and gone to separate colleges – he suddenly became cool. Now she watched as Wickham brought back giggling girls to the house in his Ford Fiesta, parading them around the lawn right under her nose and whispering sweet nothings to them in the Orangery. She followed him around like a lost puppy, until one day he found her reading in the library and, overwhelmed with something he thought was love, he kissed her so hard and so furiously that she was convinced her lips were going to fall off. She kissed him back, and for the next year the young couple were completely inseparable, spending long summer days at The Cage, cold Autumn evenings walking hand in hand around the grounds, and dark Winter nights making their lips sore in front of a roaring coal fire that blazed in the Tudor fireplace of the drawing room.

Exams came and went; university applications were completed and offers accepted. Lizzy, under the guidance of her grandfather, was off to Manchester to study Law, and Matthew was off to London to study Film. Whilst Winston didn’t think it a valid enough subject to warrant a bachelor’s degree, he offered to support John Wickham’s son through university out of kindness to the man’s widow. Wickham and Darcy promised to stay true, but time and distance can wear down anything and by Christmas they mutually decided to break up.  A short while after Matthew Wickham met a wonderfully rich, bohemian girl called Cara Dalhousie, who smelled like patchouli and had read the Bhagavad Gita; he promptly moved into her squat in Bermondsey and grew out his hair. Lizzy cried to Maggie on the phone, a lot, because even though he was doing nothing wrong, it hurt like hell. Maggie was thankful that their cross-network phone calls were only 5p a minute as she listened to her cry whilst her boyfriend rolled his eyes and turned up the television.

Elizabeth was walking out of a lecture on European Law when she realised that her grandfather had shuffled off this mortal coil. She had twelve missed calls from her dad, the man who never called anybody; there was no need to return the call as she knew the reason for it. She got the bus back to Didsbury, her head full of sadness and confusion, before driving the thirty-eight miles back to Pemberley. Hugh was there already, teary-eyed and sad. He pulled his eldest daughter into a tight embrace, kissing the top of her head and commenting on how skinny she had become. His wife, Carole, was sitting on the shabby drawing room couch holding tightly onto Imogen, whose podgy toddler limbs poked out from her expensive woollen coat.  Lizzy felt light-headed. It was all so vivid and yet surreal, as if she was having an out of body experience. The last thing she heard was the booming voice of her brother, before she passed out and landed on the threadbare Victorian chenille rug with a thud.

She awoke in her bedroom hidden away in the Elizabethan part of the house, the sheets were heavy and warm, and she could feel the smouldering heat of the fire. She smelled something very familiar that made her open her eyes; wearing his regular aftershave and with his hair suitably shorn, Matthew was watching her intently from his seat next to her bed. He looked tired.

“Hey,” he whispered. “How’s your head?”

“Never had any complaints,” she smiled, before she remembered the events of the day as if they were a dream, the pain and the sadness washing over her like a wave.

“I am so sorry about Winston,” he had said, holding her hand and stroking the back of it.

She nodded in understanding before the tears came. He climbed into the bed with her and held her close that night until she slept, and he was there in the morning when she woke, the sadness of the situation washing over her once more. He continued to hold her until there were no more tears left.

 

The Darcys were all aware of the clause in the Duke of Derbyshire’s will. The house, as much as it was loved and cherished by them, was too expensive for one only reasonably wealthy family to support and none of them had the time or business acumen to become particularly adept at estate management. About a decade earlier, Hugh and his siblings had agreed with their father that the house should be bequeathed to the Historical House Society, or similar, to be preserved for the nation. Hugh would primarily inherit the titles, the Grosvenor Square penthouse, and the villa in Cap Ferrat, whereas his brother, Jeremy, was quite happy to remain at Longbourn; their sister, Julia, who was never happy, preferred a financial settlement over property and was awarded it. There was to be a family apartment made available as a condition of the transfer and this was one of the terms that Winston Darcy had been adamant about – there must always be a Darcy in residence at Pemberley.

It had fallen to Lizzy, the second child from Hugh’s first marriage, to take up the mantle as Mistress of Pemberley. She had been in her second year at university in Manchester, but every weekend had found herself travelling up and down the motorway in her yellow Fiat, sorting out staff and belongings and arranging for her own personal possessions to be moved from her relatively small, cosy room with the four-poster bed, and up into a makeshift apartment constructed from the staff quarters on the top floor.

The Society did their best to accommodate this young lady, who had taken the administration of the staff onto her own head – ensuring that Staughton, Winston’s driver and butler, and Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, received generous pensions and cottages on the estate as detailed in codicils in her grandfather’s will. Lizzy also petitioned the society to give her Winston’s secretary a job on the new staff and was successful, she didn’t know anyone who was as knowledgeable about Pemberley as Maggie Wickham was, her family history almost being as intertwined with the great house as Lizzy’s own.

Three months after the death of her grandad, Lizzy had finally packed up all her belongings from the room that the new guidebook referred to as ‘The Knights Suite”; she had also been allowed to keep a few personal items of furniture from various rooms in the house that had not been deemed important enough to be added to the Society’s inventory. She couldn’t bear to stay in the house when the stocktakers had gone through every room cataloguing each item, however small, and had thrown herself out into the grounds, walking for miles around the estate until night fell. It had been sad for her indeed when she watched as her grandfather’s writing bureau was taken from his study at the front of the house to feature in an Austen exhibition in London - the inlaid initials on the top confirming that it had originally belonged to Fitzwilliam Darcy. She cried a few tears in the days that followed as the walnut encased pianoforte was removed from the drawing room for the same reason.

The instrument had once belonged to Lady Georgiana Alveston-Darcy, purchased as a gift by her devoted older brother and documented in the nation’s second favourite book. She knew that, of course, it was always talked about in her family; the instrument was well looked after and tuned twice a year to exacting standards by a gentleman from Fauntleroy and Bosch, where the item had originally been purchased from.  Historically she was fully aware of its importance, but for her it was also where her Great-Aunt Sybil had practiced Holst’s ‘Jupiter’ with her for days on end before her grade 2 piano exam. Even though she had not played for years, it was hard to acknowledge that she would not be able to place her fingers on those well-worn keys again unless she paid an entrance fee and illicitly stepped over the velvet rope. She wasn’t sure what the new custodians would think of the blu-tac marks on the 17th century wooden panelling near her bed, where posters of Liam Gallagher and his sneering brother had once hung, and she was fairly confident that the distinctly modern splodge on the floor near the fireplace was nail glue from a manicure set she had bought from Superdrug. Good luck removing that, she thought.

She glanced her fingers over the familiar nooks and crannies of the figures on her four-poster bed, it had been placed in nearly every position in the room and she did not know how much damage she might have done to the delicate frame as she shoved it back and forth over the misaligned floorboards. When she had first moved to Pemberley, Winston had read her a story and tucked her in under heavily embroidered sheets, trying to make the room feel homely and suitable for the five-year-old mass of curls with the sullen lip who was now under his guardianship. Those first few weeks without her mum had been hard but were made a lot easier when Maggie had told her, one night whilst they were tucked up together, that the bed had been made by a distant ancestor for a queen of England, who had slept in this very room. Lizzy slept a lot easier knowing that she was sleeping in an actual real-life princess bed, and her grandad made the room a lot more child friendly by wrapping the posts in fairy lights, much to the chagrin of Mrs Reynolds, who could see how the hot lights were damaging the finish of the ancient wood. 

Lady Elizabeth Darcy realised that she would never again wake up in this bedroom or look out of this window first thing in the morning or last thing at night. She stood still for a moment, noticing how ornate the mouldings were, how tall the statues on the main portico reached, and the roof of the gallery below. There was a tremendous sense of loss that swept over her; first Matthew, then Grandad and now her home, but more than that – her own sense of identity, she was now ‘Lady Elizabeth’, living at Pemberley as the Darcy in residence and playing a role she never auditioned for. There was also the question of University, now having to live in Derbyshire she had given up her place in the house she shared with her friends and resigned herself to the daily commute that would dominate her final year of study. She had passed her second year with flying colours but was didn’t know if she wanted to continue, despite making stubborn plans in her own head to finish.  She had studied Law as Winston himself had done and followed his wishes, but despite her obvious inherited talent for it – there had been a practicing attorney in the family since the 1840’s -  she found that she had no great love for it. There was a knock on the door and she opened it to reveal a young man with red hair and a friendly face, wearing the purple t-shirt of the HHS. His shiny new name badge said ‘Steven’ and he gestured to her remaining box and grabbed it for her. She followed him out of the room up to the flat on the top floor, where sparse staff quarters had been transformed into a quirky, misshapen, three bedroomed flat. Lizzy sat down on the battered old red couch that had once lived in the drawing room, feeling the familiar texture of the fabric beneath her fingertips, it felt like she was living in a dream, although one that she feared she would never be able to wake up from.

* * *

 

In the late 1700’s, George Frederick Darcy had remodelled the north front of the house for reasons only known to himself. He had employed the services of one of the Wyatt brothers who found some of the more Elizabethan aspects of the house not exactly pleasing to his eye. George, whose wife Anne was in town and due to give birth to their first child within the next few weeks, left the venerated architect in charge and returned eight months later with his wife and son, Fitzwilliam, to see that the bellcote on the north gatehouse had been removed and rebuilt on a small incline to the east of the house. George was now in possession of a three-story folly with a spire which Wyatt had named ‘The Lantern’; his wife laughed at how remarkably in fashion they now were and how her sister would commission something even grander to be built in the gardens of Rosings Park. Sometimes in the evening, when their son had been taken to the nursery and they were alone, they would walk the short distance to the edge of what was now called Lantern Wood and enjoy each other’s company until the servants lit the beacons, signalling to their Master and Mistress that it was now time to return home.

* * *

 

Matthew Wickham, currently languishing around the stable block apartment, found himself constantly berated by his sister and mother for his lack of housekeeping skills. Escaping the four walls on a balmy September night, he found himself walking up to the Lantern to have a cheeky cigarette and a can of lager. It was a bit of a trek, to be honest, but the view was amazing. Unexpectedly, he found Lizzy; a Marlboro Light balancing off her lip as she poured her Fosters into a plastic pint glass. They talked and reminisced and drank, falling back into their friendship as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Eventually, overwhelmed with grief and remembering, they made mad, frantic love in the folly at the far end of the garden. “What about your girlfriend…” she asked, as he pulled her t-shirt over her head and kissed her neck. “I don’t have a girlfriend...” he assured her, failing to add that he now had a fiancée. Six weeks later, Elizabeth Darcy was throwing up her breakfast with alarming regularity and Matthew Wickham had disappeared into the ether.

* * *

 

Lizzy had always been civil to Matthew for the sake of their daughter, but she did not want him walking in and out of the house as if he owned the place, and she most definitely did not want to have to deal with him for more than a few days.

“Harry?” She whispered, nudging the curled up bundle on the couch next to her.

“Yea?”  A sleepy response to a long day.

“How long is your Dad staying for?”

Harriet paused for a moment, thinking, then said, “about a month, he said. He’s directing the film, innit.”

That’s just brilliant, Lizzy thought, just bloody brilliant. She downed her glass of wine and poured herself another.


	4. Chapter 4

Lizzy woke to the banging of equipment cases being unloaded in the courtyard, Joyce’s shrill tone echoing around the four walls as something clattered and fell. It was a wet Wednesday in July, the house was closed for three days for filming preparations, and she had resisted the urge to book a cheap flight to somewhere hot to avoid the drama. This first lot of disruption, according to the filming schedule that had been popped under her door, was only for four weeks whilst they filmed the exterior shots they needed for some key scenes – including Elizabeth’s visit to Pemberley, but excluding the ‘Darcy in Lake’ sequence, which didn’t appear in the book, despite Harriet’s many attempts to find it. The production would then decamp to Shepperton and other locations, before returning to the house to film interior scenes, with rooms in Pemberley being the Darcy residence and standing in for some of the less-grand rooms of Rosings Park. It all looked exhausting.

Harriet and Summer, who had a holiday job in the cafe, had signed up as extras, something that had been offered to all members of staff, and were excited to spend the summer dressing up in regency costumes and having their hair and make-up done in the massive trailers that were now in residence on the car park. Lizzy thought that Harriet usually complained quite a lot about dressing up in regency costume/uniform, but she could understand the excitement. The last time Pride and Prejudice had filmed here she had been sixteen years old; they had only shot a few scenes here at Pemberley and none of them inside, but she had watched Mr Darcy emerge from the woods, complete with wet shirt and ruffled hair, and completely understood why generations of women had been totally in love with the arrogant aristocrat. The thrill of watching the process though had lasted with her and even though no following production had matched up to that one, this one could get pretty damn close.

 

* * *

 

Matthew Wickham led a fortunate life, and he knew it. He had been remarkably lucky in his career, being in the right place at the right time to slip his graduate film into the right hands, where it had been passed to a producer who loved it, and an agent who was desperate to make his percentage. Lauded by critics and tipped as a Best Newcomer contender, this tolerably handsome and remarkably charming man won his first BAFTA at the age of twenty-four, followed by an Oscar six months later for his short film, ‘Ubiquitous’. There had been a scandal in the papers, of course, about his ‘illegitimate’ child with the daughter of the Duke of Derbyshire, but celeb mags weren’t really his thing; besides which, any publicity was good publicity and it made for good tabloid fodder – especially when he took a shrieking, delighted Harriet to Disneyland for Christmas, ensuring that a few paparazzi were there to capture the special moments he shared with his pudgy four year old, who had his dark colouring and her mother’s grey eyes.

Nominated for his second Oscar at the age of thirty for his producer role on ‘Praise To The Skies’; a thriller written by British ingenue, Casey Muir, and also starring Best Actor nominee, Benn Williams, Matthew Wickham found himself moving to LA with his wife and three sons, Oleander, Brixton and Jude. They moved to a house in Beverley Hills, with a swimming pool and tennis court, which was bigger than the whole street they had lived on in Kensington, and he was dealing with budgets with more zeros than he had ever seen and massive pressure to continue his current success, particularly after he secured the prestigious Academy Award for Best Picture. It made it hard to see Harriet, of course, and he regretted that he missed her Christmas plays at primary school and first day at Lambton High, but he made sure that he regularly Skyped her and she was the main reason why he chose this current project so carefully.

Pride and Prejudice was basically the template for every romantic comedy ever made, and Matthew Wickham loved a challenge, especially when his interpretation of Wuthering Heights, despite being loved by the public, was panned by the critics for being an exploration of mental health, rather than a torrid, Yorkshire based love story.  However, it hadn’t taken much persuasion to convince Benn Williams to don his breeches once more for a role that Matthew knew would have middle-aged mums up and down the country whetting their whistles when the news was announced. The main advantage for him was, understandably, Harriet, who had turned sixteen a few weeks earlier and was waiting for the results of her GCSE’s. She had been out to California a few times, but only on those weeks where school holidays allowed, and his attention was always divided between his other three children and his demanding wife. To say Cara was demanding was slightly unfair, she was just uninterested; the holistic, chilled out vibe that had been the basis of their first attraction had been replaced by an inherent, and quite ugly, sense of entitlement that he imagined had probably been there the whole time, just hidden by incense and tie-dyed fabrics. As he boarded the flight to Heathrow, Matthew hoped that this time with his daughter would be good for them both, and as he settled down in his First-Class seat, surrounded by the excessiveness that two Oscars and a good assistant could buy, he could not wait to smell the Derbyshire air, watch Coronation Street and have a good cup of tea.

 

* * *

 

The restaurant had been quieter than it usually was on a Wednesday, Maggie poured another glass of wine and called the waiter over to ask for the dessert menu. Lizzy had played with her food and not really eaten much, which was not like her.

“So,” she asked casually, “are you ready for a month of filming?”

Lizzy rolled her eyes and ate a mouthful of pasta, slurping down the spaghetti and dropping some on the black lacy top that she had bought from Next in the sale.

“I’m always ready for a month of hot Hollywood actors and regency romping,” she said, wiping the sauce off herself with the napkin.

“I cannot wait to see Benn Williams in a pair of tight trousers,” Maggie breathed. “Do you think Joyce will organise a meet and greet?”

“I can guarantee it,” Lizzy laughed. “You know how crazy she is for Darcy, we might even have to peel her off the courtyard!” She took a sip of her wine, “did you hear about the job?”

Maggie look at Lizzy with a puzzled look on her face, “what do you mean?”

“You can’t have any secrets at Pemberley, you know that…” she laughed softly. “Austenation will be absolutely bonkers if they don’t offer you all of the riches in Christendom.”

“Are you cross?” A look of nervous hesitation passed across her face.

“Why would I be cross?” Lizzy looked at her incredulously, she was absolutely thrilled for Maggie, this was something that she had wanted for so long and now she was finally getting proper recognition from the organisation that she admired so much.

“I feel like I’m abandoning you, and Harriet, and even Joyce… I feel like I’m just walking away.”

“You have to live your own life, Maggie… Pemberley has been around for centuries now and I’m sure it will continue to stay there as long as we keep finding money to fix the roof.”

Maggie smiled at her friend, it was such a relief. She has been so nervous about telling her that she was leaving her job of nearly seventeen years and the home she had lived in all her life to move down south.

“I’m hoping this film will pay for a good wodge of the repairs this winter to be honest, Matthew promised us a great payment, but I’m not sure what they settled on in the end.”

“Aren’t they dealt with by HQ? I didn’t think we had much to do with it at a local level.”

“Technically, Lizzy, you don’t have anything to do with it – you know how annoyed Joyce got when you wrote that letter about volunteer expenses.” Maggie chastised her friend.

“Well, Mary deserved that £15.87 and she just wouldn’t ask for it.”

“Yes, but you have to let Joyce deal with it. That’s what she gets paid for. No wonder she gets so pissed at you.”

Lizzy took a moment to choose the mascarpone and figs from the menu as she always did, Maggie had the brownie and they ordered another bottle of wine.

“Is Matthew okay?”

Maggie deep-sighed and then laughed into her wine, “he’s in the midst of a mid-life crisis, if you call that okay.”

“Mid-life crisis? He’s only thirty-seven!”

“I don’t know what’s going on with him, but I think Cara might have left him again.”

“Shit.”

“Please don’t have pity sex with him this time. I’m sure he sometimes just makes it up so you will sleep with him.”

Lizzy looked at the wise face of her friend, more than a friend – a sister, a _mother_ \- this sophisticated, well-spoken woman had held her as she cried over David, James, Ian; had taught her how to roller skate down the Bright Gallery (and replace the carpets and not get caught); comforted her when she was ill, knew all of her secrets and all of her lies. 

“Fuck off, Maggie,” she laughed. “The only reason that happened last time was because of three bottles of Merlot and misplaced nostalgia. He regresses back to being eighteen when he comes to Pemberley, you know that.”

“What’s your excuse then?” She smiled quizzically.

 

Lizzy walked up the grand staircase. It was late, and the absurdly bright moon was casting shadows on the wall. She never did like this staircase, or the corridor through the door where the White Lady of Pemberley was meant to reside. Winston had always scared her and her friends with ghost stories when she had sleepovers; the story of the Lady Darcy - who had been pushed down the stairs by her evil, unfaithful husband – had been a favourite when she was younger, but now it was just horrible to think of the poor woman lying at the bottom of the stairs, dying alone. It would be easy to fall over the low bannister, she thought, as she looked over the edge at the floor below. There was carpet there now, but when she was little it had been varnished floorboards and there was a stain in the wood marking the spot where the woman fell. If she remembered hard enough she could almost hear Winston shouting at her from the library. “Now, Miss Lizzy, if you fall it will make a damned awful mess, do you want to have to clean it?” His voice was deep and blustery, with the clipped tones of a public schoolboy, and she wished she could hear it again, or see him sitting on his chair, reading some dusty old law book and then falling asleep with it balanced on his chest. The chair was gone now, consigned to another room, and the library protected by a blue velvet rope.

“Hey.”

Lizzy jumped and fell onto the banister, it was Matthew. 

“Did my sister fill you full of Pinot G and send you home?”

“Yes, pretty much,” she grinned, walking over and giving him a hug. “When did you get here? Was the flight good?”

“Yeah, we got in about five…I came over to see Harriet as soon as the flight landed but she was asleep on the couch,” he shrugged. “I woke her up and sent her to bed.” He grabbed her hand, “C’mon, you old lush, let’s make you a coffee.”

She followed him into the flat, where he stopped and turned around to face her, drinking her in. “Ooh, look at this… canteen medals, not like you, Lizard” She chuckled softly as he stood closer and looked her directly in the eye. Her eyes were amazing, he thought, like melted mercury one day and tonight like the dark side of the moon.

“Matthew, please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” He raised his hand and touched the side of her face, stroking her eyebrow, despite herself she nuzzled his hand. His face was now directly in front of hers, she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, the soft pressure of his lips on hers, his arms around her neck, she pulled him into her, the weight of him pushing her back against the wall. She ran her fingers through his hair, it was longer now, more like it had been when they had first learned that kissing could feel this good, how the push and the pull made you tingle all over. Even now, she could still feel that familiar burn for him deep within her and they moved together. He pulled at her top and she fiddled with the buttons before pulling the shirt over his head. The Southern California sunshine agreed with him and even in the darkness she could see that he was a deeper, caramel colour. He pulled her into him, burrowing his face into the nape of her neck, she smelled like home to him, like a thousand memories all rushing back, and he immediately felt grounded and alive.

 

He kissed the top of her forehead before he left, breathing her in before rummaging about on the floor to find his socks and boxers. She sat there on the bed, the one he had helped her to build, with the sheet wrapped around her, her mass of curls tied back on top of her head and a concerned expression on her face.

“Matt,” she said, knowing that he hated his name being shortened. “This can’t happen again.”

“It shouldn’t,” he said. “But we’re like a comfortable pair of shoes, you and I… It’s easy for us to slip each other on and off again.”

He grabbed his phone from the dresser and left, quietly shutting the door on his way out. Matthew was wrong, she thought as she pulled on her sweatshirt and pyjama bottoms. It had taken years, but eventually she had realised that when he had disappeared all those years ago, refusing to return her phone calls, ignoring her attempts to contact him, that it wasn’t because she wasn’t enough, it was because she was too much. He always assumed that she was familiar enough that he could wear her about the house when he came home, falling into the ease of her and the history they shared. Comfortable pair of shoes indeed, what a tosser. The truth was different though, she was an expensive pair of high heels – that would only be worn for very short periods of time, too high and expensive to be worn every day. That was why she could invite him into her home and into her bed without worrying about risking her heart, it wasn’t because she cared too much about him, it was simply because she didn’t really care about him very much at all anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

Lizzy walked into the party taking place in her backyard, she was wearing a black top, bright red cardigan and an amazing printed vintage skirt; with her mother’s Darcy Pearls pendant adorning her neck and her mass of curls tied up with a relatively fashionable printed scarf, she felt that she would be able to hold her own in this party full of off-duty starlets and C-list actors. She was unsure who exactly had managed to convince Joyce to hang fairy lights from the gallery windows on each side, but she was glad they had. The soft, twinkling lights illuminated the inner courtyard and the whole house felt alive with people – she loved it when Pemberley was like this, it made her think of Millicent Darcy’s infamous Edwardian house parties and how amazing it would be to recreate one of those; but for now she would have to content herself with a pre-filming get together that the production company was throwing for the actors, crew, HHS senior staff and, of course, the Darcy family.

Her brother Charlie was already here, braying in the corner with his terrible public-school hoo-ha and a group of his friends from the City, who were all double-barrelled Tories;  Aunty Julia, who had been in and out of rehab so many times she herself had lost count, was chatting animatedly to a stocky member of crew, and the current Duchess, her stepmum Carol, who was loving being feted by Joyce, who was calling her ‘Your Grace’ at every possible opportunity. Carol will love that, Lizzy thought. Maggie was on duty tonight, answering questions about the house to some random members of the Press who had been invited for advance publicity, Lizzy waved to her and she waved back subtly, whilst explaining something to an excited Japanese journalist. Tottering across the checkerboard tiles of the courtyard in a pair of ASOS heels that she had indulgently ordered the night before, she made her way to the bar. If she was going to be forced to deal with her family, she would need copious amounts of the free alcohol on offer.

Benn Williams stood in the corner, drinking his San Pellegrino and skulking about. He had recently grown a beard for a ten-night run of Our Country’s Good at the West Yorkshire Playhouse, where he had been wracked with nerves each night and required two shots of vodka before he could step foot onstage; he hadn’t shaved it off yet as he discovered it gave him a certain level of anonymity that he found comforting. It was, he thought, pretty method of him to be playing Mr Darcy and standing around looking disagreeable at a party and, even though this wasn’t any part of his preparation technique, this was what he was going to tell any journalists if they asked. Benn would rather have been drinking alone in the comfort of his hotel room than spending another minute making conversation with over-familiar crew members who he vaguely remembered, or the twenty-year-old actresses who he was pretty aware - and let’s be clear here - should be playing his daughters rather than his love interests. He walked over to the buffet, filling a small plate with chicken and some cucumber. “We can’t have a flabby Darcy,” he had been told, and the studio had insisted that he stick to starvation rations for the next few weeks, or at least until his current Dad-Bod was honed into something that looked more androgynously sexy in breeches. 

“You should try a cheese scone,” came a small voice.

He looked over and saw a face he didn’t immediately recognise, but one which looked strangely familiar.

“I beg your pardon,” he said in a stately manner, whilst thinking that this Darcy thing was going to be easier than he thought.

“The cheese scones, they are really good.”

As if to prove a point, she picked up the savoury, sliced it in half, smeared it with chutney and popped half on his plate. He looked at it, with a look that he knew was dripping with disdain, then slowly removed it and placed it back on the table.

“I can’t eat that.” He didn’t mean for it to sound like he said it with a sneer, but that’s how it came out and whilst he immediately regretted it, he knew full well that the sneer was now across his face. She looked at him with a quizzical expression on her face, as if she couldn’t quite understand what his problem was.

“Harriet,” another voice chastised. “Leave Mr Williams alone, he’s probably not allowed any carbs for the next three months!”

He glanced over to see a face he instantly recognised, Lady Elizabeth Darcy, dressed as what he assumed was Frida Kahlo – he recognised the girl now as Harriet, Matthew’s daughter – he hadn’t seen her for a while, the last time was about three years ago, if he could remember correctly. But yes, that was where he recognised her from.

“Harriet,” he smiled. “Of course, I remember you now. You were on set with your dad for Wuthering Heights.”

The girl smiled excitedly, “yes! That was me.”

“Yes,” he returned the smile. “Did we take some selfies?”

“Yes! Yes, we did… and then I tagged you in them and you commented on my Instagram!”

“That’s right,” he agreed “I remember.”

He didn’t want to tell her that he had a social media person who posted and tweeted on everything on his behalf, and that he didn’t even know the login for his Instagram account, let alone how to comment on anything.

“I knew you would… I’m working on set tomorrow, so I will see you then, Mr Williams”

Harriet shot her mother a look tinged with smugness, and then walked off towards a gaggle of girls who he guessed were her friends. They all grouped together before turning around in unison to look at him and smile before walking off under the main gate to the front driveway.

“I am sorry about that,” Lady Elizabeth said apologetically. “I’m Lizzy, by the way,” she said, holding out her hand, which he shook reluctantly.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I know who you are.”

“I did ask her not to approach you, but she was helping out the catering team in the house this morning and feels somewhat personally responsible for the cheesiness of the scones.”

“You were right,” he said. “I’m on a carb ban until my trousers fit.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think that you would look rather dapper in a pair of breeches just as you are.” She joked with him, before taking a massive bite of the chutneyed and abandoned cheese scone. “I can tell that you are very jealous of me and my scone right now.”

He looked her up and down; “I think most people could benefit from a carb ban.”

She pretended to ignore the sly dig but pulled down the back of her dress self-consciously anyway. He sipped his water and she drank her ‘Mr Collins’ – a cocktail thought up by the production team and consisting of rhubarb gin, lime and soda – through a straw.

She looked up at him, noticing how tall he was – much taller than she though he would have been, and broad, but in a way that you could imagine him picking you up and carrying you over a threshold, not that she wanted him to carry her over a threshold. It was an observation, nothing more. He was wearing a gorgeous blue jumper and nice jeans, dressing them down with a pair of battered old converse. He could feel her looking at him, and he tried to avoid accidentally catching her eye by looking out into the crowd. Jenny Graves, the Elizabeth to his Darcy, was surrounded by her on-screen sisters, who included Nancy Mertons, who was playing Jane and had just finished a successful run in an off-off-Broadway play, and taking the part of Lydia was Tamsin McLeod, recently expunged from a BBC hospital drama in a rather gruesome and macabre death involving an escalator. Since watching it the thought of the incredibly long escalator at the Angel tube station made his stomach turn a little and he avoided it as much as possible. Over by the bar was Franklin Hughes, an incredibly posh and well-spoken actor who had only recently graduated from RADA and would be taking the role of Bingley – they had screen-tested together well and the rehearsals in London had helped him to build up a rapport with the man who was fifteen years his junior. Matthew Wickham was sitting on the steps that led up to the front door of the house, chatting to Harriet and her three friends who looked too excited to listen to anything he had to say.

“Do you enjoy working on period dramas?”

He nodded, then stiffly said, “Occasionally”.

“You were rather good as Heathcliff, I must admit.”

He nodded again, saying nothing.

“I am sorry to hear about your wife,” she said apologetically.

He looked at her with great disdain, “maybe concentrate on cocktails rather than gossip columns, Lady Elizabeth.” Leaving his plate on the table he walked away, just as Matthew started his speech and called for the presence of his star. 

Benn walked out onto the expanse of lawn, how could he feel so claustrophobic in the open air, he didn’t know. He headed left, hoping that the summer air would make him feel less hemmed in and more like himself. It had been a long six months since Madeleine, his wife of ten years, had publicly announced the end of the marriage by moving out of their home in Greenwich and moving into the home of her lover in France. She had taken their two girls with her and left him with an empty house and a broken heart. It had been smeared across the tabloids, obviously, and he had retreated into his shell and his work to try and stop it from hurting. For the most part it was not helping, being away from his children had made him feel self-destructive in the worst possible ways - most nights he found himself drinking alone, smoking his way through a box of Cuban cigars that the soon-to-be former Mrs Williams had gifted him for their most recent wedding anniversary, and ordering his favourite takeout foods to make himself feel better or at least feel something. The noise of the party was escaping over the rooftops, and he sat on a patch of grass at the top of some steps, closed his eyes and wished that he was anywhere but here.

Lizzy, bored of Matthew’s waffling on about the importance of filming here at his childhood home and with a reluctance to continue hiding that boredom, decided to see if she could find Benn Williams, who hadn’t responded to everyone’s shouts to come up on stage, and whose absence had been forgotten after a drunken gaffer shouted, ‘his diet pills haven given him the shits – he’s on the bog.” She hadn’t wanted to offend him before, she was genuinely sorry to hear about the breakdown of his marriage – of all the couples that she was rooting for, the Williams’ were in her top five and they always seemed happy together, but she had offended him, and seeing as they would be neighbours for the next few weeks, she thought she owed him an apology.

Sprawled out on the grass, one of the world’s most bankable actors stared at the stars above, the noise of the PA had been replaced by the tinny karaoke, which echoed around the courtyard and out in the balmy air. He could smell roses and the heady scent of them in the air was only seeking to compound his loss. Madeleine loved roses, especially peonies. he remembered how on their first date two days before Christmas, when was a struggling actor working repertory and she had just got a job on the country’s longest running soap, that he bought her a massive bunch of what she called ‘tissue paper roses’, not realising that they were out of season and ridiculously expensive. It had cost him a week’s pay check and caused a few bills to bounce that month, but it had been worth it to see her face light up and that smile of hers, it warmed his heart. As she had kissed him that night, under the fairy lights wrapped around her bedhead, he knew that he was going to make this woman his wife.

When he started dating Madeleine he was the man who held her handbag, as she was photographed and deconstructed every week on the pages of Heat and Star Goss. She had laughed it off. Madeleine Tennant was loved by the nation, she had grown up in the public eye; both her parents were British film royalty and she had played the younger version of her mum’s role in two features before she had left school. It was this innate self-confidence that enabled Madeleine to ignore the media for the large part. It simply didn’t bother her.

They had been together for five years when he finally plucked up the courage to finally ask her to marry him – petrified that she would laugh at him, even though they already had two daughters and a ridiculously overpriced house in Clapham. She did laugh at him, happy smiling tears of laughter as she said ‘yes, yes, a million times, yes’. He was supportive when she had made the decision to leave Haringey Place and then she had effortlessly moved into grittier dramas before spending eight months in Australia filming a series for Netflix. It had been hard looking after the kids by himself, essentially being a single dad whilst she was away, but the universe had smiled upon him and it was after he had taken Esther and Anya to school that he had gone to the audition for a British film written by a girl he went to university with, Casey Muir. She had called him specifically one evening saying that she knew he would be absolutely perfect for it and that she hoped he hadn’t put himself out to pasture yet; the pages were great, and he had worked on them after the girls were in bed, rehearsing with his wife over Skype before the conversation fell into something slightly more interesting.

He had walked into the audition room to see Matthew Wickham, Oscar-winning wunderkind, who was sitting behind the table looking amazingly polished and professional. Benn had worn his smart jeans and a blue jumper feeling every one of his thirty-five years. He had been to auditions before, obviously, but this one was different. This was for something real; for a role that he knew he could do brilliant things with. As much as he loved supporting his wife and looking after his kids, he hadn’t worked his arse off and paid his dues in pantomime and rep and education to perform recycled jokes from the seventies to studio audiences. This could be his big break and he wanted this part more than anything.  He hadn’t thought that he would receive an Oscar nomination, or that he would have a BAFTA for Best Actor sitting on a shelf in the kitchen. Benn Williams’ rise to stardom had been meteoric and even now, seven years later, he was still waiting for the day when he would crash back down to earth.

He knew that Madeleine was unhappy when his own fame eclipsed her own, he knew his wife well enough to know that she was silently upset when, at the premiere of her own movie, the photographers demanded his attention rather than hers. He knew that she had felt insecure when the rumours had circulated about his friendships with his leading ladies and he knew that he had done little to stop her feeling that way, instead choosing roles that took him far away from his family for longer and longer periods of time, culminating in a disastrous month where he missed Esther’s birthday and his ninth wedding anniversary but had been photographed walking on the beach arm in arm with Rosie Schaffer. Benn Williams had come to realise, in the beauty of the Derbyshire countryside, that he had caused the break-up of his own marriage and he resolved that he was going to make it right.

Lizzy looked down at the figure that was usually Benn Williams, lying on the grass verge next to the flowerbeds in front of the Orangery.

“Mr Williams,” she whispered with a very real sincerity. “Are you okay?”

He pulled his knees up to his chest, curled himself in a little ball and groaned. “Can you fuck off” and then as if he remembered his manners, “please.”

Lizzy felt a little indignant but turned on her heel and went back to the party. She was planning on drinking a lot of gin. Benn Williams opened one eye and watched as the curly-haired woman with the red sparkly shoes clattered down the steps and back to the party.

 

“Lizzy, how the devil are you, old girl?” Charlie grabbed her in his embrace and gave her the biggest hug, practically lifting her off the tiled floor. “I say, it has been a bloody long time since I have seen you outside of weddings and funerals.”

“I know, I missed you!” She genuinely missed her big brother, despite growing up in different parts of the country, they had always kept in touch via letters and phonecalls, then emails and IM, before it became Skype and WhatsApp – Winston had always made sure they visited Charlie on St Andrews Day at Eton, and he always made sure that he gave her the pre-requisite birthday punches that he owed her from the month before. She kept her arm wrapped around him, as they walked over to the bar. “Have you not brought Lydia with you?”

“No, of course not, she is at a retreat in Geneva with Mufty and Portia, and then she is off to Norway for a few weeks.”

“But it’s the summer holidays, aren’t Tom and Josh back from school?” Lizzy never understood the workings of the ‘real’ side of her family, who sent their children away to school and had them returned at eighteen as miniature versions of themselves. “Do she not want to see them?”

Charlie handed her a large glass of something pink as they squeezed past some baby-faced ingenues and a few faces she recognised from past productions. “Well, her reasoning is that the summer holidays are for her too, so she will back for last two weeks and we’re all off to the villa to stay with Daddy. Has Carol been alright with you today?”

They walked over to the North porch, where they could sit on the stone bench near the front entrance and have a conversation undisturbed by Janice from accounts singing ‘I Will Survive’ over the PA. Carol was not a great stepmother. In fact, Carol wasn’t particularly great mother either – preferring to throw her teenage daughter into the path of producers of reality television and the tabloid press, rather than actual parent her. She was hoping that Imogen would find a similarly rich man, possibly a minor Royal, who would marry her and then she would be someone else’s problem. Lizzy and Carol had clashed numerous times over Imogen, which had resulted in a long-lasting, but fairly upper-class feud, where everyone was civil, whilst secretly plotting revenge. Charlie and Hugh were only concerned about it when there was an event, such as this one, when the two senior Darcy women might possibly clash. For the most part, Carol had been entertained by HHS staff and a Mitchell brother from Eastenders who had been calling her ‘Duchess’ all night in his cockney drawl.

“She’s been okay,” Lizzy nodded. “I keep out of her way, she keeps out of mine. How’s Imogen been?”

“Back in rehab, not sure what for. Dad has managed to keep it all out of the press so that’s a relief,” Charlie downed his whiskey. “Promise me you will come to town soon, I want you to come and see the boys and we can do some of the sightseeing rubbish you love.” He popped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her cardigan in tight against the cool breeze sneaking through from over the moorlands, and kissed the top of her head. “I miss you, Lizard.”

“Miss you too, Charlie Bear,” she smiled. “And I will be in town for Christmas anyway, you know this.”

The Darcy siblings sat there for a moment in the porch before the pull of the party was too great and they returned to the dancing, laughter and singing as the music rose up above the sandstone brick and over the leaded roof, before fading into the warm July air above Pemberley.


	6. Chapter 6

Showered and ready, Benn made himself a coffee from the machine in the corner – the drink was strong and bitter, and he winced at the first mouthful, taking a deep sigh before finishing the cup and waiting for the call from reception to let him know that his car was waiting. Secretly Benn was hoping that he would be able to speak to the woman he had offended the night before. He didn’t mean to be so harsh and, when he thought about it, she had tried to be friendly to him, which was more than anyone else on set had done.   Today they were rehearsing on location – Wickham took a very cavalier approach to filming and liked the actors to get a feel for the place and their surroundings before committing to costume, it drove the financiers mad, as despite a very tight production schedule, his films always went over deadline and budget. When pitching the story to him, Wickham had said that essentially Elizabeth and Darcy were very modern characters, that whilst they were very verbose and literary, the heart of their story was one about love and rejection and ego, and he wanted the actors to get a feel for Pemberley in their own clothes before donning costumes and wigs. So today they were improvising scenes and messing about with blocking, before filming the scripted scene tomorrow. He was really trying to get a feel for Fitzwilliam Darcy, get under his skin and understand the man behind the sideburns; his own were now longer than they had been for ‘Heights’ and they were getting itchy. He was quite looking forward to donning a cravat, although he might need to utilise the elasticated panel in the back of his breeches for another week.

*

Lizzy clambered out of the minibus and thanked Steve profusely for the lift before grabbing her bag and jacket before run-walking as well as she could in heels. She tottered past the small group of paparazzo who had gathered to try and get shots of Tamsin McLeod with no make-up on, or Benn Williams looking sad and depressed since his pretty wife left him; none of them deemed her of any importance, apart from Harold – who must have been eighty by now- who shouted ‘Lady Liz’ and took what could only be called a ‘pity pap’ as she did her most gracious smile before hurrying on her way.

Lizzy was determined that one day she would not be late for work, the small practice of Winchester, Sparrow and Jones in Lambton was only ten minutes away from the estate by bus, but it was arduous when carrying everything that she needed for the day. Blundering through the door, she nearly knocked over Angela’s spider plant with what Harriet called her ‘Law Bag’ – a huge old leather satchel that used to be Winston’s and still had a faint whiff of cigars and the British Empire about it.

“Bloody hell, Lizbot, you look a bit flustered this morning,” shouted Harris Jones from the large desk at the back of the office. “Stick the kettle on, will you?”

She sighed and threw her bag down on the cluttered desk that was piled with books and papers; the satchel slipped and sent a pile of buff folders ticker taping to the ground. For all she was disorganised on her desk, Lizzy was organised in her head, but it did drive Deb, a feisty Geordie with fifteen years of paralegal experience and a sharp tongue, to distraction – especially when her own desk was laid out with such a perfect symmetry that it nearly bordered on obsessional.

“Liz is not putting the kettle on, Harris!” She yelled down the corridor outside the office they shared. “If you want a bloody coffee, you can make it yourself!” She shut the office door behind her. “Arsehole.”

“You do remember that he is your boss, right?”

“He needs to remember that he is perfectly capable of making his own drink! He needs to get up off his arse and do it,” she said, obviously irritated. “Don’t worry, I got us both a caramel latte from Starbucks, my treat.”

Lizzy slouched down in her office chair and began picking up the files off the floor, she had been working on a complicated inheritance case involving multiple heirs across five countries and she was hoping for a resolution before the end of the summer. Probate had not been something she had longed to do when she completed her degree and dragged herself through the LPC, but it seemed apt at the time. She had, after all, helped her Uncle – the honourable Jeremy Darcy QC - wrangle some of the finer points of her grandad’s will and he had been more than impressed with her ability, but however much she tried to gloss over it in her head, it was dull. Even the interesting juicy cases weren’t particularly appealing, or maybe she had just been doing it for too long – nearly twelve years of dealing with the recently dead was always guaranteed to put a dampener on the working day.

“So,” said Deb with a cheeky grin. “What happened at your star-studded party last night, any shenanigans that I should know about. Did they have that prosecco with the gold leaf in it?”

Lizzy, still facing her monitor, swivelled around on her office chair and raised her eyebrow. Deb caught the look and knew full well that something exciting had happened at Pemberley the night before.

“What did you do?” she said excitedly. “Please don’t tell me you shagged that bloody Wickham again, because seriously I was mad enough at you a few weeks ago when you finally admitted it”

“God, no, they’re like a once in a blue moon occurences!”

“Groped by a grip?” Deb raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“Sod off,” she sighed. “If you are going to joke then I don’t even think you deserve to know.”

“Erm, you spent the evening snapchatting with your new bestie Jenny Graves, and snogged Philip Thomson?” Deb turned back to her screen and took a big gulp of her coffee.

Lizzy blurted out quickly, “I had a proper conversation with Benn Williams.”

Deb spat out her latte all over her desk, droplets of Starbucks dribbling down the wall and her new pink file folders from Paperchase.

“Are you jokin’? Benn Williams, _the_ Benn Williams? How did that happen?”

“He’s working at my house, so it’s like talking to the builder….kinda…”

“No, Lizzy,” she chastised. “No, it’s not.”

“Anyway, it’s of no matter…” she stated firmly. “He basically said I was fat and then told me to fuck off.”

Deb laughed, as she cleaned up with a pack of antibacterial wipes she kept in her drawer, “trust you to have one of the most beautiful men in the world stood right there and…well… words fail me.”

“What?” Lizzy was indignant. “Should I have tried to seduce him?”

“Would you have tried?”

“Of course not! He’s a complete arsehole!”

“I would have done,” Deb huffed, “regardless of whether he called me fat or not…You need to start seizing the day, Elizabeth Darcy, or maybe a dick –  you should start with one of those.”

Lizzy laughed louder than a woman up to her eyeballs in wills probably should, Deb turned the radio up and they danced on their chairs to her Abba playlist for the rest of the morning, much to the annoyance of Harris, whose shouts down the corridor were promptly ignored as usual.

 

Joyce had taken the job of Senior Curator at Pemberley nearly sixteen years ago, shortly after the Historical House Society had acquired it and she could say with absolute certainty that she loved her job. It hadn’t been easy – she had worked hard before getting her post, studying part-time for a master’s degree in museum studies whilst working as a curator at Dunham House in Cheshire, raising two children and nursing her mum, who had early onset Alzheimer’s and a tendency to wander off.  She didn’t think that she would never cease to be thrilled about working here at Pemberley, even driving there in the morning from her house on the outskirts of Lambton always gave her a little flip in her stomach. Joyce had grown up reading Jane Austen novels and, when she was younger, she always got a little tingle of excitement reading her home town mentioned in the paragraphs where Elizabeth visits the north with her Aunt and Uncle. The Duke of Derbyshire had started opening the house for public visits on a more formal basis, which meant that he was now charging fifty pence for entry and there was a small tea-room and a little shop. She would never forget the smell of the house – the faint whiff of cigars, old books and history pervaded most of the rooms – she would never be able to describe it accurately, it was as if it was less of a smell and more like a feeling. As she had walked through the rooms, wondering at the events that had happened here; Georgiana Darcy’s wedding, the birth of Mabel Darcy and the death of her beloved Fitzwilliam Darcy, she truly felt as if she was walking through history.

Joyce was the most serious twelve year-old in existence, her mother thought, and she could see that she had been affected by her visit to the house. She watched as the girl took a seat at the small writing desk by the window, looked at how she touched the inlay, carefully read the sign that said this desk had belonged to Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy and had been brought from the house at Longbourn after the death of her father. Marjorie loved watching Joyce in the house, watched how excited she got walking up the grand staircase, how reverent she was when visiting the rooms that had been lived in by her favourite characters – and watching the realisation that this is where they had existed, that they had been real people. They shared a scone and pot of tea before walking around the gardens, taking pictures with the instamatic camera that Joyce had received for her birthday the week before. On the way out, she bought herself a thin, papery guidebook written by Sybil Darcy with the last of her birthday money, that night she devoured it page by page in one sitting.

Joyce had visited Pemberley at least once a month until she left home at eighteen to go to University in Leeds, she was at the house so often that Winston Darcy, who had three children about the same age, offered her a job as a room guide when she was back from Yorkshire. She had accepted it immediately and spent her summers and half-terms learning the Darcy family history, helping clean tapestries and escorting excited Austen fans around the house. Now she was currently halfway through her PhD, studying part-time whilst working full-time as the Operations and House Manager of Pemberley, as well as standing in for Sam, the senior curator, who was currently on maternity leave. Despite the injection of cash from the production company, it hadn’t covered the costs of closing the house and grounds, or the additional security they had needed to pay for to stop photographers getting into the grounds, and even though they would definitely benefit from this next year when the film was released, there was a problem with the roof now and she was having to cut costs elsewhere to maintain the property at its current level. She felt personally responsible for Pemberley – it was her second home, and she needed to do everything she could to ensure that it would be around for the next six hundred years.

Joyce sat down at her desk in the office at the front of the house,  the room that had once been the study of Fitzwilliam Darcy and then his son Francis, who had taken over the daily running estate when a tragic accident claimed the life of his older brother – the portrait of the younger gentleman hung over the fireplace, he had the same grey eyes that Lizzy she thought, but from the information in the archives, that was where the likeness ended. Francis Darcy had a hideous temper, and it had only been when his nephew, also called Fitzwilliam, had come of age that his character had mellowed, and he retreated to Longbourn to live out his life. Joyce heard a clash and clatter outside and cringed as she wondered which part of the house the production team had damaged now, she got up, swigged her cup of tea, and made her way outside.

 

Matthew watched as the dolly grip, Trevor, dropped the track onto the floor and he knew – just knew – that Joyce would be on her way out to ensure that there were no issues. A tree had been accidentally damaged a few days earlier when they had taken some shots with the drone – dramatically sweeping over the peaks and following the carriage with Elizabeth and the Gardiners up the driveway as they made their way to Mr Darcy’s house – he loved the way these shots had looked when he watched the rushes, even though the operator, Simon, had fudged the landing and sent it crashing down into the massive old tree near the summit of The Cage. It hadn’t done anything really – more damaged was caused to the drone than the tree - but as this was ‘Mr Darcy’s Conker Tree’, the fuss made had been excessive and the financial reparation disproportionate. There had been an article on the Daily Mirror website about how the production team were not respecting the history of the house and again how US funded films were denigrating the cultural heritage of Britain. The tabloids always forgot to mention how they ploughed millions of pounds back into the houses they used for locations, and the upsurge in tourism in the areas of filming. Matthew probably hadn’t needed to choose Pemberley as a base for the production, but he loved being in his hometown, back under a familiar sky and where the weather was different each day.

 

 

 

Mr Darcy was sitting on the steps leading up the front door of the house. The main entrance was up a small flight of stone steps, with a cast iron railing on each side before leading into the epic grandeur of the entrance hall that had once formed the medieval banqueting hall. There was a flurry of activity surrounding him as production assistants and crew prepared for the scene, their voices and the noise echoing around the square courtyard at the centre of the house. Lucy finished styling his hair, making sure that each of his curls were regency ready. They had worked together for years and she could confidently state that she knew every pore on his face.

“I’m glad you shaved the beard off,” she said, brushing out his sideburns, which tended to puff out when he got hot.

“You are?” He questioned, he had thought he looked good with the beard, even buying a beard comb and some expensive oil from Neal’s Yard. “I thought beards were ‘in’ now.”

Lucy looked at him quizzically, the sun was shining from behind casting her bright red hair into some sort of halo. “You thought it looked good?”

Slightly offended, he said adamantly “Yeah, it did look good!!”

“Who told you this?”

“Erm, the Daily Mail, people on Twitter?”

Lucy laughed out loud, her perfectly winged eyeliner creasing as she did. Benn looked at her quite indignantly, he looked totally crestfallen. He had been genuinely very proud of his facial hair.

“It’s not a good beard, not like a hipster beard or one of those lumberjack beards. It’s… well… it’s…” She scrunched up her face, not wanting to say any more.

“Go on,” he pressed.

“It looks a bit pubey.”

Benn looked at her, astonished at her frank defamation of what he personally thought was rather a good beard, “pubey, you say?”

“Yes, like full-on seventies bush pubey,” she tried to hold back her laughter. “I’m really sorry that no-one has told you this before. You’re lucky I’m married to your sister because I’m being much kinder than a stranger would be.” She dabbed his nose with a final dab of powder and then released him on his way

After two weeks on location Benn Williams was feeling remarkably upbeat. He didn’t know if it was being out of London, or if it was the positive feedback he had been getting in the papers – Colin Firth and his wet shirt paled in comparison to Benn Williams with his bare-chested muscular physique and tight trousers – it had even made a small segment on a BBC East Midlands segment, before being picked up by the national press. He decided to walk out to the front gate to sign some autographs before filming started, pacing through the entrance porch and out onto the driveway. The new boots were rubbing his heel slightly and he stopped for a moment to adjust them – there was already a sizeable crowd waiting on the front driveway, he smiled broadly and walked out to greet them.


	7. Chapter 7

Jenny Graves was dressed in a beautifully embroidered Regency style gown; the empire cut emphasising her bosom and the soft silk highlighting the curve of her hip. She was sitting in the replica coach that had been brought on set for the Darcy’s triumphant return to Pemberley, wearing Wayfarers to shield herself from the sun, her historically accurate wig pinned up into decadent 19th century curls with a scarf around it to protect it from the gentle breeze. It was taking ages and she was so hot in the multiple layers that she wearing to create this so-called effortless look. Jenny hated wearing corsets – she had only taken this job because her agent promised her that it would be her last stint in period costume for a while, with promises of grittier scripts and maybe something involving full-frontal nudity, so she could commit her form to film before she reached twenty-five and it all began to sag. She sighed and pulled out her phone from the little drawstring bag that was part of her costume. Time for some historical snapchats, she thought.

When Lizzy was ushered through the security check four hours later, after having to leave her car about half a mile away, Bingley and Darcy were standing in their wedding outfits, both looking extremely dapper in their morning coats, top hats and tight breeches, talking to members of the public.

"Please can you sign it to Vicki?" the woman asked, passing him the pen and a copy of Pride and Prejudice.

Benn nodded and signed with a flourish.

"Are you excited about being Mr Darcy?" she smiled at him.

"Well, as excited as one can be about spending the hottest month of the year in a cravat."

"Can I get a selfie with you and Franklin?"

"Of course," he said, taking the phone. "Smile!"

He handed her back her phone and she giggled before returning to her group of friends who all laughed with her before walking off triumphant. He looked at his co-star and smiled; Franklin had already been christened Bada-Bingley and as he walked off to speak to some more adoring fans, was clearly loving the attention. They had been on set since half six and it was now quarter to four and the scene hadn't even been finished yet. There had been the issues of aeroplanes; the location was under the flight path of Manchester airport and ten takes in a row had been ruined by the sound of Dreamliners ferrying holidaymakers overseas, secondly Jenny could not remember her lines. She only had four and she fluffed them over and over, until he had got up and walked off set, desperate for a drink and a puff on his e-cig. He grabbed a coffee from the catering truck and asked his assistant, Leanne, to grab his bag from his trailer.

He wandered up past the Orangery and onto the Top Lawn, taking a moment to surround himself in a cloud of self-righteous pineapple vapour. It was a long day and all he wanted to vanish back to his hotel, FaceTime his girls, put on jogging bottoms and watch the cricket. At least now he was off starvation rations and could indulge in chips or something equally decadent, like cake – a whole fucktonne of cake. His new svelte figure felt good; he had been using a small gym around the corner from his house, but stopped when he saw random phone pictures appear on the showbiz websites a few months ago, where he looked frumpy and older than his forty-two years. Then the pictures of Madeleine and that French bastard, Louis, appeared; they looked shiny and polished dining at a pavement café in the centre of Paris and it seemed that everyone was delighting in his misery. He knew he shouldn’t look, but it was like a car crash that he could see but couldn’t avoid, and in the darkest hours of the night he trawled through websites on his phone reading comments that said he deserved this heartbreak and that he had never been good enough for the nation’s sweetheart Madeleine Tennant anyway. It was horrible when people you had never met took all the things that you hated about yourself and then used them as reasons why your wife had chosen to not be with you anymore. He had called her a few times over the last few weeks, the revelation sticking with him as he wanted desperately to try and fix it, but it was no use… at least not for now anyway. Madeleine had sent him a solicitor’s letters directly here to Derbyshire asking him to not contact her anymore, and another which prevented him from seeing his girls. He had an appointment tomorrow with his attorney – Madeleine could take the house, the cars, the money; but she wasn’t going to deny him the right to see his children.

Sitting on a bench at the top end of the garden, he poured a good measure of whiskey from his hipflask into his coffee. Away from the tourists and all the popular bits that had been on the TV, you couldn’t hear anything apart from the gentle chirrup of birdsong and your own heartbeat. It had become his favourite place to come and sit for a while and he settled back in the warmth of the afternoon sun, closing his eyes and absorbing the rays.

Lizzy was out at the far end of the ravine when she spotted Benn Williams sitting on the bench on the top lawn. She had already made up her mind that she was going to avoid him for the duration of the filming and so far she had managed it, but she was not going to be chased out of her own garden by this arrogant man who thought he was better than her, just because he could read lines that someone else had written and had a reasonably attractive face. She decided to continue with her walk and marched towards where he was sitting, planning to waltz past him and carry on to the rose garden, where the best phone reception was, and she could finish the story she was reading online with a piece of cake.

The crunch of gravel underfoot caught Benn’s attention and he opened his eye to see Lady Elizabeth stomping past him, wearing a turquoise dress covered in polka dots and he was quite sure shoes with bees on them. She didn’t acknowledge him but walked straight past and continued on her way. He remembered what he had said to her on his first night here and immediately felt ashamed, taking a deep sigh, he got up.

“Lady Elizabeth,” he called, walking after her as fast as the stiff boots would allow. He could see that she had heard him, but she continued. He called again, his stage training helping him project, “Lady Elizabeth Darcy.”

Lizzy stopped, she did not want to speak to this man. She had held out the hand of friendship to him and he had knocked it away, but what could she do now? It’s not like she could ignore him when his big stupid voice was booming out across the garden, was it. Okay, she would be polite and vague, she would talk to this silly man and see what he had to say. But if he was rude again then she might punch him. She turned on her heel and found herself face to chest with Mr Darcy.

“Hello, Mr Williams,” she staccatoed, in a voice that was much posher than he remembered. “Can I help you?”

Benn looked at her for a moment, he wasn’t in the habit of speaking to members of the aristocracy and the working-class boy from Oldham, despite his private education and 2:1 from Cambridge, suddenly felt remarkably out of his depth.

“Erm…I wanted to say sorry,” he blurted out.

“Sorry?” she questioned, quite aggressively, he thought. Must tread lighter, he decided.

“Yes, I am sorry for being so awful to you when we first met,” he said apologetically. “You must think I’m a complete arsehole.”

She nodded in agreement, “yes, you are a complete arsehole.”

Turning back around she strode off in the direction of the rose garden and she was glad that she had worn her Bee Shoes today as they gave her a little wiggle when she walked.

The roses were now in full bloom and the heady scent of them wafted over into the tiled pergola where Lizzy was lying. The wood had been warmed by the sunshine and because the gardens had been closed to visitors for the day, she found that she could lie here undisturbed for most of the afternoon. She had tucked her cardigan under her head and was currently engrossed in chapter 23 of a Jane Austen fanfiction that had been being drip-fed for the last three months – for all she loved Elizabeth and Darcy, it was always Anne and Captain Wentworth who made her pulse race.  

“It’s very rude of you to walk off when I am trying to apologise,” the voice was the one she recognised from countless movies trailers and television interviews.

“It was very rude of you to tell me to fuck off when I was trying to be nice,” she said without even looking up from her screen.

Benn deep sighed and she could visibly hear him thinking of something to say.

“Look, Lady Elizabeth, I am really sorry for what I said. It was totally inappropriate, and I was...”

“…A complete arsehole?”

“Yes,” he said resolutely. “A complete fucking arsehole.”

She swung her feet around and sat up so that she could look directly at him. “Look, I understand that you have some weird method crap going on where you feel like you need to act like an arrogant prick to really get into character, and I know you probably think that it’s okay to speak to people like they don’t matter, but you can’t do that.”

“No,” he said defensively. “It’s not that… I was having a crap day and I took it out on you, even though you were nice and were trying to help. Believe me, I needed help that day, but I was in no place to take it.”

She looked up at him, still dressed in his costume, he was almost not daring to look her in the eye, his gaze fixed on the floor. Lizzy had two choices here; she could continue with her cold front and tell him to get lost, or she could accept his apology and move on. She chose the second. It wasn’t because she was over-awed by Benn Williams, it was simply because she recognised in him an innate loneliness; she had read in the papers that Madeleine had pushed for an injunction which meant he couldn’t see his kids, and then there was all the drama with the Tamsin McLeod pictures from a week ago that probably weren’t going to help his case at all.

“Are you still drinking?” She asked firmly, in her best teacher voice.

 “No,” he said limply. Benn looked at her with a confused look on his face, he thought he had been doing a good job of covering it up, was it really that obvious.

 

Lizzy eyed him up and down before standing to face him as best she could when he was nearly a foot taller than her.

“You smell like you’ve been drinking,” she stated. “Does Matthew know?”

He shook his head, took a deep sigh and sat down on the bench. “Please don’t tell him.”

“How much are you drinking?”

“Just a nip now and then, nothing too much – nothing that will affect my work.”

Lizzy knew all about the filming of ‘A Peculiar Good’, a tense thriller involving multiple locations and three countries, where Benn Williams had turned up drunk on more than one occasion and singlehandedly caused the budget to skyrocket when four days of filming were lost.

“Look, you seem like a nice man – honestly, Harriet thinks you are great fun and she hates everyone, so that’s a big seal of approval, but you need to stop this if it’s a problem for you. I know what it’s like to need a friend,” she said with a different softness in her voice, the haughty tones replaced by a softer Derbyshire lilt.

Benn’s father had been a mean drunk, downing two bottles of wine a night to cover up the disappointments of his own life by drowning himself in cheap plonk. After Benn had made some money he had paid for him to enter a rehabilitation clinic; he didn’t want to turn into him, seeing how the booze had taken a once proud man and turned him into someone who sold his story to the lowest tabloid for a modicum of cash. He sensed that she was looking at him again and turned around quickly to find her looking him directly in the eye. In her hand was a large tub of carrot cake with a dollop of cream, she handed him a spoon.

“I mean it,” she told him firmly. “I am even sharing my cake.”

 Benn was ravenous for cake and grasped the bowl to him, savouring each mouthful of the frosted walnut and carrot confection. They sat for a moment on the bench in silence.

“Are you going to start preaching at me,” he said, washing a mouthful of cake down with a mouthful of coffee from her flask and not his own.

 “No,”

“Not even if I’m a complete arsehole?” He smiled with his whole face.

“I think we have both agreed on that and as long as you are happy to proceed under that understanding then I think we are both done here, don’t you?” Lizzy grinned at him.

“Lady Elizabeth, I do not believe we have had the pleasure of being formerly introduced” he proclaimed in his best Mr Darcy voice, gallantly holding out his hand, which she took gracefully and shook firmly. “I am Mr Benn Williams of Clapham, formerly of the North, currently residing in Derbyshire at the home of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Laughing, she played along, “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Williams!” She did a small bob. “I am Lady Elizabeth Sophia Mary Georgiana Darcy, and I am also currently residing at the home of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, and yet, I am so informally attired.” She clicked her shoes together as if to prove a point.

“Wow, that’s a lot of middle names,” he gulped. “You are really posh, aren’t you?” “Yeeeeeeah, goes with the title,” she smiled. “Please though, just call me Lizzy.”

“Dearest, loveliest, Lizzy,” he began, smiling at her with a newfound warmth. “Do you fancy going out for tea sometime?”

“I’m guessing you mean tea as in dinner?” She questioned, with a cheeky look on her face.

“Yes, tea as in dinner,” he laughed. “I think I have some coupons for the Toby Carvery.”

“Ooh,” she giggled. “I love an all you can eat meat buffet.”

He raised an eyebrow, “it was just an invitation to lunch, Darcy…”

Lizzy flushed a little and looked away, she had no idea why she had said that, but she liked that he teased her about it. There was more to Benn Williams than she had initially thought.

“Tea would be lovely,” she grinned, recovering her composure. “Are you thinking tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow would be grand.”

A small figure was running towards them, holding a clipboard under her arm and trying to hold onto her headset and radio simultaneously as she plodded awkwardly across the grass.

“I think you might be being called to set, Mr Darcy,” Lizzy prompted, with a wry smile on her face. Benn groaned and got to his feet, handing her his rubbish, which she promptly placed back in the paper bag.

 “Farewell, Lady Elizabeth Darcy, I shall see you on the ‘morrow as business calls me away to London this evening,” he swaggered, taking her hand and kissing it an overly dramatic fashion.

She laughed, “you are completely incorrigible!”

“Well, of course I am. I own half of Derbyshire and this beautiful home you see before you – my ego is as large as my fortune and you, Lady Elizabeth, are only tolerable and not handsome enough to tempt me,” he began to walk off in an overly theatrical manner towards the runner, who was waving at him frantically, taking the time to say hello and sign autographs for a couple of volunteers who were on their lunch break.


	8. Chapter 8

John William Darcy surveyed the scene in from of him. Glittering with diamonds, smothered in satin and powdered to perfection was his beautiful wife, Isabella, bent over the wooden table in the quiet fragrance of the still room, and being roughly taken from behind by one of their dinner guests, his wig was tilted to one side, his cravat loose and his breeches flapping around his ankles. He watched for moment, unseen, before returning to the dining room, the dancing and their waiting company.

The son of Richard Darcy, the man who took the fortunes built by his ancestors and frittered them away at the gambling tables of St James Palace, John William Darcy was not a romantic man. At twenty-two, he had inherited a near bankrupt estate, a dilapidated house and was tied to paying a crippling annuity to the Royal Household.  Pemberley had suffered greatly after the death of his grandfather, Cyril, his own father having neither the aptitude for estate management or the desire to live in the country, especially when the pull of London society was so great.

John William Darcy was a respectable and somewhat god-fearing gentleman of twenty-eight years of age, and he realised that his responsibility was to restore the family fortunes in the only way currently open to him; marrying rich.  Embarking on the hunt for suitable bride, Darcy was feted by gentlemen of trade – newly monied and fashionable - who longed to see their daughters lauded in higher social circles and as mothers to heirs of venerable old family estates. One such gentleman was Roger De Stratton, a merchant from the far North, who had made his fortune in cotton. He had invested wisely in new processes and procedures, his wealth and new business empire continuing to grow.

Isabella Stratton was beautiful, and whilst John thought that he could have eventually found himself in love with her pretty features, smart retorts and ability to laugh heartily at herself, it was clear that her affections and her heart lay elsewhere, although unfortunately with a gentleman already in possession of a wife. Their wedding was a grand and lavish affair, with her father footing the bill for the banquet and the wedding jewels. The new Mrs Darcy was as smart as her father, and had times been different she may have eventually found herself in charge of Stratton Mills, rather than as mistress of Pemberley. Holding up her end of the bargain, she was faithful to John and bore him three children – two sons and a daughter – before promptly abandoning them to live in Paris with her French aristocratic lover, who had promised her the moon on a stick and a ribbon wrapped around it. It would have been most agreeable for this forthright woman of fortune to have lived a long and happy life on the continent, however, she was found dead in her bed seven years later, her jewels stolen, her purse emptied and her lover nowhere to be found.

John William Darcy raised his children as best he could – he taught them always that their duty was to Pemberley first and to their own wants and desires second. He hoped that they could find a path in life that would be a perfect blend of the two. With his wife now returned to England and placed in the family mausoleum at Lambton, John tried to fight the waves of depression and grief that washed over him with increasing regularity. His family coffers were now restored, and he boosted them by selling parcels of land from the far ends of the estate and investing his money wisely. He continued to repeat to himself, over and over, that he was not a romantic man, that he did not need the pull of a wife to distract him from his duty to his estate and his responsibilities as an MP for the local area. He pushed on with his parliamentary work, never inattentive, and focusing on anything other than looking for a new bride, but John William Darcy realised too late that a life without love is a miserable one indeed. One late February morning, a few days before his fiftieth birthday, he walked into the oldest part of the woods and blew his brains out. It was classed as a hunting accident for purposes of report, even though it was deemed peculiar – the shot being close range and hunting out of season.

 

* * *

 

Joyce Hutchinson loved telling the tale of John William Darcy to her audience in the small chapel at Pemberley. She thought he was such an interesting and tragic figure that it was pity his efforts and achievements were mainly overlooked by the fictional version of his grandson, Fitzwilliam. As much as she loved telling people the real story of Darcy and Elizabeth, she wished that sometimes they would ask about some of the other characters who had walked down these halls and been married in this very chapel, rather than having to point them in the direction of Mr Darcy’s Lake. Usually the room was packed full of part-time historians and everyday visitors who were eager to learn more about this elusive gentleman, especially after The Guardian ran an article on him a few months back, but today the room was mainly empty, apart from a plump, eager girl was here every weekend pretty much mouthing the words, and two German tourists who looked confused. She suspected that they had been looking for the toilets and were too polite to just walk out.

Today though she knew that her usual audience were all outside watching filming; the house and grounds had been closed for the past two weeks as the bulk of the outdoor shoot was completed, however, for this final part – an additional scene where a newly married Mr and Mrs Darcy returned to Pemberley – the production team had allowed public viewing and publicity shots were being taken by the local and national press. Joyce was also eagerly anticipating the spike in visitor numbers that would follow in the next few weeks as they reached the height of summer, the house desperately needed a new roof and they relied upon guest numbers to provide the much-needed revenue for repairs

Harriet slumped into the large couch which dominated the flat, she had been on set since 5am, trussed up in her maid’s costume and performing the same action a hundred times. Her dad had been in complete tosser mode all day – she knew that it was what he did for a job, and he was really good at it, but he was so bossy and demanding that she had wished she had gone to work at the souvenir shop in Lambton, where she could sell Mr Darcy magnets and Lady Catherine’s Lemon Curd to foreign tourists all day. At least she could tell him to bog off later when they went out for dinner. She felt sorry for the other ‘supporting artists’ who he had been bollocking for most of the day, and for poor Jenny Graves – who despite being ridiculously gorgeous and super skinny – was really stupid. It had been her fault, really, that the whole day had been wasted. Firstly, she couldn’t remember her lines and then she fell out of the coach and ripped her dress, then her phone went off in the middle of the scene; Harriet had never seen her dad so angry, shouting and screaming about unprofessionalism and demanding that everyone leave the set, before storming off to his trailer. Her mum had always said that she got her temper from her dad, but Harriet had never recognised it before.

Walking up the grand staircase and through the door at the left, Harriet pushed her way through the door to the flat she shared with her mum. It would be nice, she thought, to have a house where you could put out a deckchair when it was nice and sit out on the garden during the day, rather than having to wait until everyone had gone home and then sneak out like some kind of rebel. She peered out onto the courtyard below from the tall windows; crew members were busy resetting for the ‘return to Pemberley’ scene that her dad was so excited about, she guessed that they would be having another go at it tomorrow. It was now seven o’clock and she was knackered.

“Mum!,” she shouted. Nothing. “Mum?”

Harriet turned up the stairs and flopped into her bed – stuffed full of catering truck tacos she fell asleep within minutes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the comments - this story is meant be read with Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth too, so please had a look at that if you haven't already. :)

With filming finally finished, Benn Williams free from his regency trappings and dressed down in t-shirt and jeans, met Lizzy Darcy in the car park and they drove to the nearest Toby Carvery on the outskirts of Kympton. Surprisingly, they didn’t attract any attention, except from the waitress who refused to accept Benn’s coupon. Lizzy had laughed as he had pulled it out of his wallet as the bill was presented, calling him a skinflint, he redeemed himself by leaving a £20 tip tucked under the receipt for the waitress who had generally been quite pleasant and lovely.

As they drove back through the winding country lanes of Derbyshire, through High Lanes and New Mills, and then Lambton itself they talked about the film – he said he had never read the book, and she chided him in such a way that he told her to stop the car so he could get out and walk; he asked her about Matthew and she said that she would rather not talk about it now, water under the bridge; she asked him if had enjoyed London and he said that he hadn’t, but that he had a good divorce attorney who was getting paid a whole heap of money to make things better. As they neared the Alveston Arms he asked her to keep driving back to Pemberley, which she did. They parked behind the stables and she grabbed his hand and led him through the top gate where they could sneak through into the gardens.

“It must have been amazing growing up here,” he said sitting down on the bench outside of the Orangery, “I imagine it must have been like living in a castle!”

Sitting beside him, she pulled her cardigan over her shoulders, suddenly chilled by the cool breeze, “it was amazing, I had the most wonderful childhood,” she smiled up at him, “completely bonkers, but wonderful.”

“I’ve never really noticed how big it is,” he looked up at the very top of the house, gazing back at the vast expanse of sandstone and windows. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” she agreed, smiling. “Do you fancy a brew?”

“Aye, lass, that sounds great.”

“Excellent,” she smiled. “Me too…I might even let you have one of my special macarons if you are good!”

He smirked, with the wry smile that inadvertently caused women up and down the country to swoon. “I’m always good. Special macarons, you say? What makes them so special.”

“They are frightfully expensive,” she said in her Lady Liz voice, which he had been teasing her about for half of the evening.

“Well, they do sound remarkably special,” he said mimicking her tone in his own Mr Darcy voice. “Excuse me if I have misunderstood, Lady Elizabeth, but are you inviting me up for coffee?”

“Mr Williams, how very dare you, have you no sense of propriety!”, she grinned, with a mock indignation that made him laugh with his whole face. “But yes, tea, coffee, hot chocolate… just don’t be expecting anything untoward, acting is such a vulgar profession and I am a Lady.”

There was that laugh again, it felt strange coming out of his body – he hadn’t felt it for a long time and for a moment he had forgotten what there was to be sad about.

“My flat is literally there,” she said, pointing at the Wyatt tower, which stood behind the impressive arches and columns of the south front, the one that adorned the booklets and magnets that he had seen earlier in the gift shop.

“But how do we get in?” He looked puzzled, the main entrance to the house was all locked up.

“Do not fret, Mr Williams, I have a key!”

Benn had gladly followed Lizzy up the three flights of stairs to her odd, little apartment in the roof at Pemberley, with its floor to ceiling windows and mezzanine, he commented on how surprisingly like a Manhattan loft it felt. She had laughed at his strangely placed flattery and mentioned how it had been cobbled together by the Historical House Society after they inherited the house, and the only architects they had consulted were the local Lambton builders who had made a hodgepodge of rooms in the old staff quarters into her lovely, large, warm flat. This section of the building was called the Wyatt Tower and had been added by Fitzwilliam Darcy in the 1830’s to house his ever-growing team of staff. She put the TV on for him, made him a coffee and settled herself on the chair opposite the big red sofa covered in throws where he firstly sat and then slumped. Her home was stylish, understated and a bit eclectic, with odd shabby pieces of furniture, which he assumed were family heirlooms, mixed with newer bits and bobs. There were also piles and piles of books, on the coffee table where she had temptingly placed a few biscuits on a plate (“I won’t tell if you won’t”) and over in the kitchen, where one wall was home to a massive bookcase.

“Do you read?” he asked, before realising that it was a stupid question.

She grinned, “what gave you that impression?”

“I…erm…” He grabbed a book from the table and pretended to be interested in it, before looking up at her smiling at him amused.

“Yes, I do like to read… a lot,” she crossed over and plonked herself on the large leather armchair. “It makes me sad to think that there is a massive library in the house down there and nobody ever reads the books in it anymore”

“So, you made your own library up here…” he realised that he had emptied his cup and she got up from the chair to grab the pot from the kitchen.

“Of course, what else?”

“Can you not go and read in the library downstairs,” he questioned, intertwining his fingers around the hand of the coffee mug, “would that be against the rules?” The cup in his hands said ‘Faculty of Law’ and he remembered reading that she was a solicitor or something.

Lizzy thought carefully before answering, the truth was that she was able to go and read the books in the library if she wished, but it wasn’t the same. She couldn’t curl up in her pyjamas with a mug of hot chocolate and lemon biscuits on the big old armchair in front of the fire or pile a stack of books high and spend an afternoon working through them. She wouldn’t be able to hear Winston snoring in his chair as they waited for Mrs Reynolds to cook their Sunday lunch, listening to records and lazing about. So instead of trying to get used to this new order, she simply didn’t really go into the library anymore unless specifically asked about something in there. Once the HHS had taken over they had painted over the soft yellows and white, replacing the creamy damasks with heavy velvets and red, flocked wallpaper in a late Victorian style. Lizzy thought it looked like an Indian restaurant.

“Not against the rules so much, but against my better judgement,” she mumbled, disappearing upstairs, before returning a few moments later with her make up off and her dress replaced by a vest top, cardigan and soft cotton trousers with llamas on. She was not usually accustomed to revealing this much of her inner slob to anyone, but she had work the next day and it was exhausting wearing a dress all night.

She smiled apologetically, refilling his mug with freshly brewed coffee - “Don’t worry, it’s decaff.” - from the pot, before settling back down on the chair.

“I often find wearing dresses very exhausting,” he reached over to grab a biscuit.

“Are you making fun of me?” She crossed her arms and glared at him.

“No,” he said firmly. “I did a lot of regional theatre – I was the best Widow Twanky in Leicester for three seasons.” He pretended to adjust his bosom.

“You did panto?” she grinned, “I thought actors like you were made in labs somewhere outside Pinewood.”

“Actors like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” He grabbed another jaffa cake.

“Are you kidding? Look at you, you’re like,” she moved over to the couch and poked him on the arm, “not real. When they said you were going to be Darcy I was hoping that you would be much shorter and fatter in real life, and not as…” she noticed the way he was looking at her, listening carefully to everything she said, “…not as arrogant and full of yourself,” she recovered. “But one can’t have everything can they?”

Benn Williams wasn’t quite sure what to make of this woman; couldn’t quite make her out and even though she revealed some things about herself, it was mostly superficial. He had always thought himself to be a good judge of character, had an ability to read people which had made him a very good salesman in the past, when he had sold mobile phones in a shop in Croydon.

“Do you ever feel the pressure of being a Darcy,” he questioned, turning his cup over in his hand, “I know Madeleine always felt that she had so much to live up to and it would surely be much worse for you.” It was odd saying her name out loud, talking about her in a past tense, but the meeting with his divorce attorney had confirmed what he had sadly resigned himself to.

“I have never felt the pressure of being a Darcy -it’s a different kind of responsibility, you have this massive house and this huge heritage that everyone knows about – Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy –it’s all real and they were actual people,” she got up from the couch and stood in front of him, gesticulating wildly as she did, “not only that; they’re your great-great-great-great-great grandparents and you live in Pemberley House, and you feel this massive urge to protect them and keep them safe from people, but you can’t…” She sat back down on the couch, turning to him again, “Lizzie and Darcy belong to everyone now, but I still have to make sure that all the private bits are private, I owe that to them.” She crunched a biscuit, sending crumbs scattering all over her cardigan.

 “I see,” he said softly, gently brushing the biscuit crumbs from her top. “I think you take too much of this upon yourself”

“What do you mean?” she stood up now, turning her back to him.

“You don’t have to shoulder the burden of Pemberley by yourself...” he stood and took two steps towards her.

“I’m not by myself,” she circled quickly to face him, before her attention was drawn to the stairs. “Harriet!”

Harriet was standing in her pyjamas, looking down at Benn Williams standing in her flat. She thought that maybe she was dreaming, turning on her heel she went back upstairs to bed.

“Maybe that’s my cue to go,” Benn smiled, grabbing his jacket from the chair. She walked him down to the staff entrance at the side of the house, where his car was already waiting.

“Okay, I’ll… ummm… see you about, I guess?”

“Yes, I’m sure you will,” she smiled warmly, leaning in to give him a hug, which turned into an awkward kiss on the cheek from him and laughter from her.

Getting into his car, Benn Williams took a moment to look back at Pemberley as it faded into the distance, he could see the lights of Lizzy’s flat illuminated at the very top of the house from his position on the driveway. He hadn’t come to Derbyshire with the intention of meeting someone, and strictly speaking it hadn’t been a date, but if it had been a date he would have left tonight feeling quite confident with how it went. But, no, it hadn’t been a date, despite that urge he had to kiss her; the way her nose crinkled up when she was talking about something with passion, or the way her eyes sparkled when she was teasing him, the way she smelled of coconut… But no, it wasn’t a date.

Lizzy wandered up the back stairs, the quickest way to her flat from the front of the house – she was unsure what tonight was, she didn’t have too much experience, but she was pretty sure that it felt like a date. There was even one point where she felt certain that he was going to kiss her, and she was unsure what she would have done if that had been the case, because part of her would have wanted to slap him for being so assuming, whilst the rest of her would love to be kissed hard by someone who knew how – and Benn Williams had years of onscreen practice. Walking back across the Bright Gallery, past the marble busts of Darcy and Elizabeth, she giggled at the absurdity of it, wondering how she would explain it to Deb at work, or even if she would explain it at all.


	10. Chapter 10

Deb had forgotten to bring in cake for Alison’s leaving drinks, so lunchtime had involved a trip to M&S. Clambering into Lizzy’s ancient Fiat, that smelled vaguely of sick masked by Yankee Candle air fresheners, Deb grimaced as she strapped herself in.

“Do you not earn enough money to buy a new car?” She joked, but with a semi-serious tone. She had googled how much Lizzy earned and she knew full well that she could afford something not as grim as this twenty-odd year-old Fiat Punto.

Lizzy rolled her eyes as they pulled out of the car parking space that had her name on, “I like this car.”

The journey was short, and they decamped to the store quickly, avoiding a quick shower of unseasonal rain for which neither of them was suitably dressed.

 “So, you must tell me what he’s like,” Deb said, whizzing paper bags full of granola squares and choc chip shortbread into the basket. “Is he like he is in ‘Still into You’?”

“The one where he played the narcissistic sociopath? Yeah, he’s exactly like that,” she snorted.

Deb threw her friend a well-timed side eye, “well, all I’m saying is that since you went out for tea with him a week ago, he has been at your flat every night and you have barely said two words about him. Obviously, I’m curious, you know full well that I’m a nosey bitch!”

“I know,” Lizzy apologised. “He’s… well… he’s a normal bloke and we watch telly and talk.”

It was true, he had been in the flat three out of the last four nights, which was completely surreal, especially when Wuthering Heights had been on TV last night and he had provided a real-life commentary as they sat on the couch and ate a bowl of crushed biscuit and mascarpone that should have been a cheesecake. She had taken the time to school him on the finer points of Heathcliff, things she felt he had missed from his interpretation, and he had decried her reviews by stating that all women loved Heathcliff because of his brooding sexuality and the fact that he was a grade-A arse, which was what all women wanted really if they thought about it. She smeared mascarpone on his face as revenge and he chased her around the couch as if to prove his suitability for the role. Harriet, who had been making garlic bread in the kitchen for her and Summer, rolled her eyes before retreating upstairs.

“You watch telly? Christ alive, Lizzy, if I had Benn Williams on my couch I wouldn’t be watching telly.”

“Yes,” Lizzy chastised, before taking out a large lemon drizzle cake out of the basket. “Even if I fancied him, which I don’t – I mean, he’s handsome and funny, but he’s coming out of a long relationship and I wouldn’t want to be the bounce of his rebound.”

“I would be the bounce of his rebound!”

“You are terrible!” She hit her friend with a small packet of biscuits, before throwing them into the basket too. “I’m… well…it’s nice to have a friend, who gets stuff.”

“Are you saying I’m not a friend, Lady Muck,” Deb teased.

Lizzy laughed softly and shook her head, “he just understands the whole public eye thing – especially now my sister –

“-Imogen?”

“-Yes! You see how many times she is in the paper…and remember those awful pictures that they took of us when we had the goldfish bowl!”

Deb laughed remembering the less than flattering picture of them both at Bella Italia on a works do that had run on what must have been a very quiet news day the Daily Mail. They had pinned it up on the noticeboard in their office and it was a continual source of both merriment and annoyance at the hideous angle and Harris’s nasty habit of buying the newspaper in question. 

“He just understands that in a way that most people don’t,” she grabbed her cashcard and paid for the basket that was filled with an assortment of cakes and pastries. The rest of their lunchbreak was filled with a conversation about Debs’ new boyfriend, Pete, who was blessed with both a large member and a voracious appetite. It was a match made in heaven, Lizzy thought, as she rammed a cupcake into her mouth on the drive back to the office. 

It was GCSE results morning and, quite rightly, the whole of the Pemberley staff were excited on Harriet’s behalf. She wasn’t the only one sixteen year-old receiving results that day  - there were a few girls from the café, including Summer, and a lad who was on an apprenticeship who worked down at the stables and really needed to pass his maths this time – but Harriet was their own, most of the long-term staff knowing her since she was in the womb and watching her grow over the past sixteen years. The production team were also excited for her too, and she had received a massive bunch of flowers that morning from her dad, but obviously ordered by his long-suffering assistant, Linda, who had red hair and work-related anxiety. Harriet wasn’t too phased by getting her results today – as long as she got into college she would be quite happy, and she would be even happier if her parents kept the information to themselves and took her to Frankie and Benny’s for overpriced cheesecake and a mocktail like normal bloody parents.

Lizzy was on tenterhooks all morning as she waited for the text message. She was sure that Harriet had done fine, but she still had that nervous expectant knot in her stomach that reminded her of waiting for her own A-level results and whether she would get the results she needed to Manchester. She got the two A’s and a B that she needed and that afternoon when she returned home, there was a bright yellow Fiat Punto waiting for her on the drive complete with a red bow wrapped around it. Waving at her from his study window was Winston, wearing a purple bowtie and his smartest suit, he came striding out and she ran to the courtyard to meet him, where she wrapped her arms around him and gave him the biggest hug.

“Grandad,” she said. “You’ve bought me a car?”

He patted her gently on the head, “of course I bloody well have, I can’t keep driving that blasted Jaguar down to the village every time you want a bloody lift. Do you have any idea how much petrol costs nowadays? And Staughton’s eyes are all wobbly now he’s old…”

Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a set of keys, complete with a Darcy keyring from the gift shop and handed them to her.

“Now, come on old girl, lets christen this bloody thing with a quick whizz down the drive. I might even take you out for dinner if you’re good.”

They had set off down the drive, drove through Lambton and then ventured out to the Alveston Arms, where Winston ordered them both big steaks and pieces of black forest gateau - which had always been the traditional Darcy celebration meal since her dad had got a place at Cambridge in the seventies, even when Uncle Jeremy had gained his silks and become a QC, they had ordered the same meal at the devastatingly posh restaurant near his chambers and only gotten away with it because Winston had flashed his peerage.

As they drove home, down the mile-long driveway, Winston took her hand in his and gave it a little squeeze. “I’m so bloody proud of you,” he smiled. “You’re a damn fine Darcy, probably the best of us all.”

“I love you, Grandad,” she whispered. It wasn’t something any of them said very often, Darcys were very often restricted by their stiff upper lips.

“Love you too, Lizard,” he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and they walked under the arch, up the stone steps and into the saloon for coffee and biscuits on the balcony.

 

Lizzy walked up to the Lantern, usually it was only opened on Bank Holiday weekends, the structure itself being Elizabethan and listed, but she had surreptitiously kept a key years ago, never handing it over to the Historic House Society. They had their own, obviously, but this meant she could go inside when she really needed and not simply when the timetable allowed. In the distance she could hear the faint echo of announcements and the signals that they had started rolling. This was the last day of filming, they were only getting the final shots of the carriages and the entrance in, then they were off to Shepperton now before returning to the house in October.

She was glad that they were going – it had caused so much disruption, and the arguments she had with Matthew about the horse chestnut tree had given her migraine. It wasn’t just a conker tree, it was the tree that Darcy had planted in memory of his lost sons knowing that it would a fitting memorial to their playful nature and provide entertainment for their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Great-great-great-great-great grandchildren in her case, as she had fond memories of running up there in autumn to get the best ones, Matthew had run with her and she was so annoyed by his arrogant forgetfulness that had wanted to punch him hard. She had made them pay for an expensive tree surgeon to try and reduce the damage, much to the annoyance of the unit production manager, who huffed and puffed as she made the call.

She continued the upwards trudge towards George Darcy’s folly.  It felt that every time she walked up the east approach, the hill got a little steeper, the walk a little bit harder, but it was probably that she was just getting older. She was nearing forty; now there was nothing wrong with being nearly forty, she thought. Helen Mirren was seventy now and still fucking amazing, but to be nearly forty and still living in your childhood home, in what was technically a flat above the shop – despite it being a really very nice shop – felt somehow tragic. Even Maggie was moving on; Austenation had made her a very nice job offer and she had accepted, giving Joyce four weeks notice. By the time September was here, Maggie would be living in Hertfordshire and commuting into London every morning, Harriet would be hopefully be starting college and then it would be two years before she would move on and move out.

The phone flashed:

HARRIET: Don’t worry, I’m in! Three A*s, Two A’s, Five B’s and a C. Just scraped maths, praise be to Jesus :) Please let Dad know, his phone is off. See you later, off to Starbucks with Summer and Caitlyn. Love you.

Lizzy sighed with relief.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have rewritten and reordered a lot of this story, so if you are reading this as a new chapter I would kindly ask for you to re-read the earlier ones too so it makes sense! :)

It was after six when the last of the staff left, their soft chatter and gentle footsteps echoing through the Bright Gallery and down the back north stairs as they clocked off for the day, eager to get home and enjoy the last bursts of glorious sunshine. The Bright Gallery ran around the house on three sides and had been the perfect place to learn how to roller skate; people forgot when they walked around the house using hushed tones of reverence that Pemberley had always been a family home and countless generations of children had run around screaming, shouting and generally causing chaos in the hallowed halls. Lizzy loved it on busy Summer holiday weekends when dozens of small visitors descended upon the grounds, dressed up in regency costumes borrowed from the dressing room and ran around the gardens laughing and shrieking as they did. Sometimes the gardeners would grab the old croquet set out of the storage cupboard and set up the hoops on the lawn, parents shouting at one or other of their offspring to stop chasing another around the garden with a mallet.

Lizzy stepped outside of the large oak door that was marked ‘private’ and led the way to the Wyatt tower and up to her flat, usually she didn’t use this door, instead climbing her way up the three flights of steps in the north corner of the courtyard, and through corridors and passages that visitors didn’t see, places that had allowed the servants of Pemberley to move about the house unnoticed and unseen. She sat on the top step, waiting for Harriet, who was still getting ready for the post-results party at Olivia’s, it felt strange to have a child who had left school – she could remember vividly living these days herself and the time had passed by so quickly that it was scary. Her own GCSE results had been overshadowed somewhat by her Dad’s wedding to Carol, which had taken place the day after in the small chapel at Pemberley and been photographed for Hello magazine. She had been forced to wear a hideous yellow dress and she compensated for it by getting ridiculously drunk off the Veuve-Cliquot that was being freely handed out, spending the evening throwing up and then being taken to bed early by Maggie, whose boyfriend stood in the corner deep-sighing and wanting to get back to the party.

Lizzy felt the thick, woollen carpet underneath her fingers, it was another thing that had never changed, although it was a lot cleaner now that when she had been younger; the Historic House Society had done a thorough deep-clean of the house when their tenure had begun and, although it had been strange to experience – like someone cleaning out your house after you died, but before you had died – she now appreciated the refurbishments that they had made, the investment they had pumped into the house and the general feeling of love that all members of staff had for her family home.

Lizzy got to her feet and grabbed the small jute bag decorated with bees and containing the bottle of fizz and the two crystal champagne stirrup glasses that had belonged to Millicent Darcy. The great thing about a stirrup glass, she had always thought, was that to the untrained eye it looked like a bell, but was so designed so you had to drink your full toast before you could put the glass down. These particular glasses had been gifted to Millicent by her second cousin Rupert Fitzwilliam, who had been wizard smart, but not clever enough to avoid the bullet that ended his life during the Battle of the Somme.

“Mum,” Harriet gave her a gentle hug, “are you ready?”

Lizzy looked up and smiled at her daughter who was nearly the same height and dressed in a red tea dress and stripy shoes that she had borrowed for the party. Harriet looked beautiful, the perfect blend of Darcy and Wickham.

“Yes,” she grinned. “Shall we retire to the Saloon, Lady Harriet?”

“Why, yes,” Harriet grabbed her mum’s hand with as much grace as she could muster, and the two Darcy ladies promenaded down the grand sweep of the oak staircase, taking their time to do the customary salute to General Charles Darcy, whose portrait dominated the hallway and who was the gentleman responsible for rebuilding Pemberley after the English Civil War.

“Do you think he would approve of his house being open to the public,” Harriet asked as they paused at the base of the painting, the ornate gilt frame catching the tiny shards of sunlight that were glinting through the protective blinds.

“The other alternative would have been Pemberley being converted into flats or a hotel, I think that would have been worse, don’t you?” There had been talk of it and it was what had happened to Derbyshire House, the family’s London house in Grosvenor Square, which was now a swanky five-star hotel, although the Darcy’s had negotiated ownership of a penthouse suite for their own use.

“They would never do that to Pemberley, you could easily find some Austen-obsessed foreign trillionaire who would buy it and turn it into-”

“-Turn it into a theme park or transport it brick by brick to Dubai?” Lizzy looked at Harriet with a quizzical look as they walked through the main doors to the Saloon. The room had been designed for Fitzwilliam Darcy and had been his masterpiece at the centre of the house – purposely intended to impress visiting guests and showcase his immense wealth. At the far end of the room was a floor length mirror, which gave the illusion of a never-ending length of rooms, the oak panelling was highly-decorated and ornate, having been completed by the same master who had completed rooms at Blenheim and Chatsworth. In the centre of the ceiling hung a magnificent chandelier, glinting with crystal and illuminated with over fifty bulbs, it was the original light fitting and Lizzy had always wondered how many people it had taken to light all the candles each evening in the days before electricity. She walked over to the window, lifting the sash and locking it in place before opening the bottom half of the door, the smell of early August wafted in, and Lizzy could smell the Magnolia tree from the centre of the lawn, its white flowers looking like popped popcorn from this far away. Harriet had already poured out the fizz and they walked out onto the balcony, looking out on the reflection lake and toasting her success.

Lizzy waved Harriet off at the front gates, they had taken lots of pictures with Summer and Caitlyn on the driveway and then they were off at the start of their new adventures. She grabbed the bag and resigned herself to the M&S Meal Deal that was waiting for her upstairs. Although she had never expected to spend her evenings with Benn Williams, now that he was gone she found that she missed his company. He had made her laugh in a way that she hadn’t expected he would do, sharing a similar sense of humour and an ability to laugh at himself now that she had scratched away at his snooty veneer. She had even forgiven him for calling her fat when he explained that wasn’t what he had meant at all and he always found that he was much better saying words other people had written, rather than using his own – he had been doing it for so long now that he thought he was now completely ineloquent. Lost in her thoughts, and slightly excited about the mountain of profiteroles waiting for her, Lizzy made her way back inside.

Lizzy was halfway up the stairs when she stopped still. There was music playing, quite faint but still she could hear it…she felt sudden shiver creep down her spine despite the staircase was warm from the August heat. Pemberley had been around for too long to not have at least a few resident ghosts – the White Lady being only one. Through the Long Gallery it was said that the sad spirit of Sophia Darcy’s son Frederick stood crying every night in the nursery waiting for his mother to come home, unaware that he would never see her again, dying a few days later of scarlet fever, and his grandmother Mary was said to haunt the woods, howling for the loss of her grandchild. Lizzy followed the sound of the music, any apprehension being removed – was that Mr Beveridge’s Maggot? – walking slowly down the stairs, she crept over the velvet ropes, the music seemed to be coming from the Entrance Hall.

To call it an Entrance Hall was unfair, Lizzy thought, it was a large decadent room complete with four huge columns and hung with 17th century tapestries on three of the walls, one of which was dominated by the marble fireplace commissioned by Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy, and the huge portraits of Sir Piers D’Arcy and his wife, Matilda, which were displayed facing each other at opposite ends. The room dated from the day the house was built and used to form part of the medieval banqueting hall – it stood on a level all of its own and was the grandest and most impressive room in the building. Along with the Saloon and dining room, it formed the main entertaining suite of the Darcy family and had been home to numerous celebrations throughout its history. The music was louder now, the unmistakable rhythm and melody from her childhood echoing through the corridor, she was immediately taken back to being twelve years old and performing country dances in the courtyard with Winston and his mish-mash troop of dancers, led by Mrs Cecily Wharton, who he had obviously been in love with. Her pulse was racing slightly though, as the sound system in the Hall – usually programmed to play relaxing harpsichord music – shouldn’t be playing right now unless triggered by movement, could ghosts trigger motion sensors? She wasn’t sure. Don’t be daft Lizzy, she chastised, this is your house. You know every inch of it. Still, she hid behind the post and peeked around it, unsure of what she might see. It was Benn.

“What are you doing?” She walked down the steps and directly towards him, he had been so engrossed in trying to remember the steps for the blasted dance that he hadn’t even heard Lizzy clomping towards her in polka dot heels. She always clomped everywhere, he thought.

“Hey!” He smiled, happy to see her but confused as to why she was here. “Joyce said that you weren’t here this weekend… aren’t you and Harriet meant to be in London with Matthew?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head, “Harriet had a party so we are going down tomorrow,” she said offhand. “Are you dancing?”

He had been in rehearsals for this over the last few weeks and it was taking ages to sink in, even Jenny and Franklin had totally perfected it and he was clonking about like Frankenstein’s monster. He had spoken to Joyce yesterday and, as he wasn’t due in Shepperton for another two days, she had said that he could spend some time in the house and practice to try and get a feel for Mr Darcy who had been, so the history books stated, very good at dancing. The sweat on his brow and his red face gave it away, he nodded. “This is like a gym workout, y’know.”

Lizzy laughed, “yes! This dance is also very complicated and takes forever.” “Do you know it?” He took a swig of water before returning the bottle to his bag on the far side of the room. Joyce had been very specific about not eating or drinking on this side of the rope.

“Know it? Yes!” She grinned again, and he noticed the crinkle above her nose again. She looked bonkers, wearing a dress covered in a cactus print and those mad shoes on her feet. But he liked it, she tended to wear her feelings on her face and even though he hadn’t known her for very long, he felt he could trust what she said. In his industry, that was a very rare thing indeed. “Would you like me to teach you?”

For the next hour, Benn listened to Lizzy explain to him the intricacies of Mr Beveridge’s Maggot and why it was the go-to dance for Pride and Prejudice as the way it was choreographed meant that Elizabeth and Darcy moved up and down the longways dance and were constantly forced to face each other. From a filming perspective it made lots of sense, but it was also hauntingly beautiful and, in her opinion, deeply romantic. They walked through the dance, moving together and then apart – substituting a card table and a chair as the other couple. Lizzy did not need any extra encouragement to keep dancing this most Regency of dances inside Pemberley House. She might be a bit rusty, she thought, but surely dancing was like riding a bike, something you never forget. Taking Benn’s hand, she directed him in rolling back the huge Edwardian rug so that they had a wooden floor to work on. He played the music on his phone as it was easier to control, and she counted him in, for the turns, for the movements, for the coming together and moving apart. And they repeated it, and repeated it…

“I always used to think it was called ‘Maggot’ because of the way everyone moved up and down the dance,” she confided, sitting down on the large yellow settee in the centre of the room.

“I’m guessing it’s not because of that,” he took a seat next to her and they took a moment to appreciate their surrounding and the enormous room that was now settling into dusk.

“No,” she sighed. “It means ‘fancy’, so really the dance and the song are called Mr Beveridge’s Fancy – this is nowhere near as interesting!”

“I disagree, I imagine Mr Beveridge was very fancy and look, here we are still dancing his dance two hundred years later.” He stood back up, wanting to perfect the dance, wanting to move in harmony with her in this  dance which he had a new appreciation for. “Lady Elizabeth, may I request your hand for the next two dances?”

She held out her hand and he pulled her up from the couch, moving her close to him, so close that he could smell her perfume and that soft scent that was all her own. He could kiss her now, he thought, he could kiss her and then he would know what it felt like to touch those soft pink lips with his own. She breathed him in for moment, before pushing him into his starting position.

“Mr Williams, such a level of impropriety will not suffice. We have at least five years before the Waltz becomes fashionable,” she winked at him and set the music playing. They moved together as the dance began, she wasn’t sure what she felt as his hand touched hers, but it felt a little bit like lightning.

The entrance hall was unique in that it had an architectural feature known as the ‘squint’, designed by Wyatt it allowed the family to peer into the entrance hall, shielded by the painting of Piers D’Arcy, which swung out on a hinge. It was from here that Joyce, who had been working late and cataloguing some fabric, saw Benn Williams and Lizzy Darcy dancing beautifully, stepping in time with the music and falling half in love with each other to the tune of Mr Beveridge’s Maggot.


	12. Chapter 12

It was much later, when the summer moon was high in the sky, the brightness glazing the countryside with its soft hues, illuminating the structure of Pemberley against the darkness of the Derbyshire moorland, in the distance the outline of Manchester and its surrounding suburbs twinkled. Up on the leaded roof of the Wyatt tower, Lizzy Darcy was lying on a thick woollen blanket, looking up at the constellations with Benn Williams.

“Look,” he pointed up at the sky. “That’s Ursa Major.”

“Where?” She moved her head an inch closer, fully aware that there was now only a hairline between them. He leaned his arm over, directing her eye to the sky, and she saw the stars pitted in the darkness.

“There, can you see it?” She nodded and then looked at him and grinned. He didn’t know how they had ended up climbing on top of the roof, navigating the creaky spiral staircase and lying behind the iconic Pemberley portico, but he was glad he was here sharing this night with her.

“How do I know that it is Ursa Major and you’re not just making it up?” She sat up now, looking down on him, her hair falling in ringlets around her face.

“You will just have to trust me,” he said with a deadpan smirk. Lizzy looked back up at the sky, grabbing her coffee mug and taking a large gulp. He reached over and took his own from the tray they had brought up to the roof, pulling himself back against the sandstone brickwork of the balustrade. “You know if you had told me this time last year that I would be sitting on top of a stately home with Lady Elizabeth Darcy, then I wouldn’t have believed a word of it.”

“I bet last year you were somewhere terribly exotic, filming something wonderful and definitely not thinking about being stuck on a roof with a crazy woman with mad hair.” She bowed her head, he wasn’t sure if she was being purposely self-effacing or if she was genuinely unaware of how lovely she was.

“Don’t be daft, your hair isn’t mad,” he looked over at her and she hit him playfully. She moved backwards, placing her back against the wall and sitting closer to him than she thought she should. There were butterflies in her stomach turning over, and she took a deep gulp of coffee and ate a profiterole to try and convince herself that she was simply hungry, rather than it being something more.

“I used to come up here when I was younger,” she began, swallowing the profiterole in a very unladylike manner. “My grandad had this amazing telescope which was a million years old and we always thought we could get it focused and see galaxies, but we never did and ended up dragging it back downstairs and watching The Sky At Night instead.”

“Your grandad sounds a bit bonkers like you,” he stuck a plastic fork in another profiterole for her, and she took it from him with a small smile.

“He could be a lot of fun; sometimes he was grumpy and strict, he was an older generation, born in 1918 to an unmarried suffragette who luckily happened to be the daughter of a Duke, so it was all okay.”

“Winston was the son of Millicent Darcy?” Benn had been given a quick lesson on the Darcy family tree one afternoon by Harriet when she decided to park herself in his trailer under the pretence of setting up a new private Instagram account for him. Millicent Darcy was a really famous feminist, there was even talk of a statue of her being erected in Parliament Square, he had never made the connection before but imagined that when the statue was revealed some junior editor would headline it: “Mr Darcy’s Bolshy Granddaughter Gets Own Monument”, alongside a picture of Colin Firth.

“Yeah, he was born and raised in green, white and violet,” she confirmed. “Didn’t stop him from being a bit racist either.”

“Racist?”

“Maybe a tiny bit, but then he met Cecily and she changed his mind. I remember when he took her to his club for the first time, and this would have been when I was about seven, so 1988 maybe… and they referred to her as a ‘Lady of the Commonwealth’. He was furious, never went back to that club again, and Darcys had been members since, well, since before Fitzwilliam, so ages.”

“She was black?” Benn looked confused.

“Yeah, she was from Jamaica; She died about ten years ago now, but I can still hear her telling him off and shouting at him, she was the only person who dared to shout at Winston. You can thank her for the amazing Jerk Chicken that I will make at some point.”

“Is this you promising to make me dinner?”

Lizzy looked up at him, “it might be.”

“I’d like that.” He reached over and took her hand in his own, she jumped slightly under his touch. Lizzy felt the lightning coursing through her veins as she turned her head to look at him, finding him already looking at her. His face a few inches away from her own.

Benn had found himself thinking about her when he was alone, wondering what it would be like to take her to his favourite places, run her fingertips over the bookshelves at Shakespeare and Co in Paris, take her swimming in the Pacific Ocean under the shadow of the Santa Monica boardwalk, hold her hand and walk through the streets of London. Then his mind had wandered, what would it be like to hold her hand, kiss her face, run his fingers through that mass of curls and to feel the closeness of her laughter reverberating against him. She was always laughing, always smiling, always giggling, it was infectious; when he had arrived at Pemberley he had been a different man, not a man that he recognised, but a shell of the person he had once identified as, no wonder his wife had fallen out of love with him. Lizzy made him remember the person who had once occupied this body, made him remember how to smile and tease. For the first time in a long time Benn knew that he could have a future that didn’t involve Madeleine, could see a different life without her and in the last few weeks he had begun to realise that maybe this new life involved the woman sitting next to him right now. He could feel the anticipation in the air, catching at his breath, making it hard for him to do anything except look at her.

“Your eyes are amazing,” he half-whispered.

“My pondwater eyes,” she said softly, demurely averting her gaze.

“They’re like mercury…” He raised his hand to her cheek, tracing his finger down her jawline and over the soft pinkness of her lip. “I have never met anyone like you in my entire life.”

She looked up at him, unable to move, unable to speak; she felt as if she was in a movie, where the world had stopped turning and music played as the stars shone in their sky. As Benn moved towards her, in that practised way that she had seen him do so many times on the big screen, she could feel the heat of his breath against her face, could smell his expensive cologne mixing with his own scent. His stubble grazed her top lip as she felt him press his lips gently against her own, just for a moment.

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not,” she said. “There is probably a reason why you have never met anyone like me.”

“Lizzy, I am in great danger of falling halfway in love with you.” He was staring at her hand in his own, stroking the back of it, feeling the smoothness of it under his thumb as if it was a pebble. Then he looked up at her and leaned over, kissing her again, harder this time, feeling him push back against her, his hands gently on her hip pulling her towards him. But no, she couldn’t do this, not like this, not with his divorce imminent. When she had met him four weeks ago, he had still been in love with his wife, they might have shared a few nice moments and it was undeniable that there was a spark there, but she had been here before and she didn’t want to risk her heart trying to repair someone else’s.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” She got up, slipped her shoes on her feet and began to gather her things together. “You are a very nice man, and a very good kisser, but I can’t wait around for you to decide to break my heart on a whim when you come to the inevitable conclusion that this won’t work. I’ve done that before and the only person who gets hurt is me. So, please, let’s …” she swallowed, “let’s be very good friends.” She nodded, trying to convince herself that this was what she wanted, trying to convince him that this was best course of action.

“Lizzy, don’t do this… don’t push me away,” he petitioned, reaching for her hand again, as she pulled it away. “Matt was right, wasn’t he?”

“Matthew?” She said, her face growing indignant. “Have you been speaking to Matthew about me?”

Benn nodded, “he said that you never let anyone get close to you… I thought this could have been different.”

“This? This is nothing!” She shouted loud enough for the echo to carry around the building. “This is us playing about on the roof like schoolkids, it’s not real, Benn. It’s like a scene from a film, no wonder you’re good at it.”

“What makes you doubt what I think about you? I mean it.” He walked over to her, tried to touch her shoulder, but she shrugged him away. “I think you’re amazing. Did that kiss feel like it wasn’t real? Because it was, I promise you.”

“You’re a very good actor, Mr Williams, maybe you’re being method,” she said with a  Darcy-like sneer. “Every actor can kiss.”

“No! You don’t get to call bullshit on this!”

“Yes, yes I do,” she said coldly. “I think it’s maybe time to call for your car, don’t you?”

“Why?”

“Because you went to speak to Matthew about me; Matthew who thinks that he still knows me even though the only time we have conversations about anything other than himself or his ridiculous relationship is when he’s telling me that it’s okay for us to still have sex occasionally, because we’re used to it. Matthew who only ever gives a shit about what you can do for him!” She paused for a moment. “You could have asked anyone here about me and they would have told you that first and foremost, before anything else, before anyone else, I am a Darcy, and Darcys don’t get to simply do what they want. Matthew doesn’t get that, he never did. He never will.”

“You let it define you, you’re not just a name, Lizzy.”

“You still don’t get it, if you decide to quit acting and grow a beard and start teaching English in a comprehensive school, then you can. People might comment on it at first, but they will forget eventually, until one day the Daily Mail runs a Where Are They Now segment and your name pops up, but mostly you are anonymous. I don’t have that luxury, I am always going to be Lady Liz and I am always going to live at Pemberley, and people are always going to ask about Darcy and Elizabeth. Always.”

“You don’t have to answer them, you choose to do that.”

She shook her head sadly, “it’s not a choice, Benn.”

He noticed that she was shivering, almost without thinking he took her cardigan and placed it gently over her shoulders, wrapping it around her, letting his arm linger on hers for slightly longer that he should have done. She noticed that he was trembling.

“You always have a choice, Lizzy,” he murmured gently.

“I know,” she replied with a false brightness, moving away from him and opening the rooflight, beginning her descent down the spiral staircase. “I have made my choice and I will always choose Pemberley.”

Benn wasn’t sure what was happening, but before he knew it he had been bundled out of the staff entrance and was sitting on the slick leather seats of his corporate car, driving away from the house and the woman who was holding his heart in her hands.


	13. Chapter 13

2001:

* * *

 

The winter air was thick with cold and Lizzy felt the ice in her lungs as she climbed the steep hill from the car park and up to the house. She didn’t think she would ever get used to parking her car where the tennis courts once were, or not being able to park on the driveway, which was now blocked off with two very official looking removable posts. The transition from family home to tourist attraction was going smoothly for the house, which was enjoyed a lavish and careful programme of restoration. There had been a serious repainting of the window frames, a thorough tending of the gardens and the deepest of spring cleans. Inside pictures were being restored and items rediscovered after a full cataloguing of the attics, including the rediscovery of a trunk of authentic and delicate gowns from the early 19th century, some of which, according to their labels, had belonged to Elizabeth Darcy herself. Of course, there had been a massive fuss made about the dresses, which had been acquired by the V&A to be restored and then form the basis of a new exhibition. Lizzy recognised a sparkly red gown with gold thread as one that she had dressed up in as a child, parading down the halls and posing for pictures that Maggie took with her new polaroid camera, before discarding the dress at the foot of the staircase and running upstairs to play skittles in the long gallery. The hill was steep; much steeper than she had remembered it being when dragging her sledge up it after careering down it during the winter, Mr Staughton calling to her from the top, promising hot chocolate and buttered seed cake whilst Winston watched from his study. The cold was taking her breath away and she struggled for moment to reach the top, the icy wind blowing in from the peaks causing a chill in her bones.

Lizzy had always thought herself slightly resilient to the cold of a Pemberley winter, but this year was particularly harsh; she blamed it on her hormones. She was now five months pregnant but felt as if she was about to burst. For the first three months she had continually thrown up, which hadn’t made the commute to Manchester every other morning particularly pleasant. There had also been a smell in the lecture hall of her class on a Thursday which made the baby grumble and her stomach churn with nausea, the lecturer had been very polite about it and given her a bin to prevent any further vomiting occurrences disturbing the rest of the class.

“Hi there, I was wondering if you would be able to help me,” she had asked the kindly faced woman at the Student Advice desk on the second day of term.

“I will try,” the woman smiled; she had a warm Mancunian accent, the badge on her lanyard said that her name was Barbara.

“I was told that I needed to register a name change to ensure that it’s correct on my transcripts?” Lizzy had been dreading this day, it felt so pretentious. She had loved being able to coast as Lizzy Darcy, getting the odd smirk from an English Lit undergrad or a glance of recognition from the occasional lecturer, but mostly she had been anonymous at Manchester.

Barbara took Lizzy’s name and student ID and begin to tippity-tap into the keyboard; they had only recently moved over to a new computer system and she wasn’t used to it yet, preferring the old-fashioned methods of cards and files.

“Right, so I will need your marriage certificate, have you brought it with you?”

“Marriage certificate?”

“Yes, your marriage certificate… for your change of name?” She glanced down at the protruding bump between them.

“Oh,” Lizzy wrapped her coat around her tightly, “no, I haven’t got married…Uhm…Well…”

“Have you changed it by deed-poll or been legally adopted?” Barbara’s tone was getting ever so slightly more official with each word she spoke.

 Lizzy reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope that contained the letter and legal information from her uncle’s office, which documented the change in her name from simply ‘Miss Elizabeth Darcy’ to ‘Lady Elizabeth Darcy’, the title to which she had to answer to now she was the daughter of a Duke and not merely the granddaughter of one. Barbara scanned through the letter, before taking it to a colleague, who squinted over it before looking at Elizabeth as though she was bonkers. Barbara came back and placed the letter back on the desk, taking time to fold it flat.

“Did you get this for Christmas? Because I know it says you’re a Lady, but those gift packs aren’t legally binding, we couldn’t update it on your degree certificate… do you understand, love?”

“Yes, I do understand that, but this is real,” she smiled at Barbara, who proceeded to look at her as if she was a simpleton. “Honestly, I have the card for my Uncle’s office and you can speak to them and they will confirm it… I wouldn’t usually have bothered, but apparently it’s a requirement.”

“Well, yes,” Barbara grumbled as she took the card and then retreated to her colleague, who phoned the number, both women stood looking at her from across the sea of office furniture. The smaller woman looked up at Barbara and nodded, Lizzy could see her visibly redress herself and she returned to the counter with an ingratiating smile.

“All of that seems to be in order, _Lady_ Elizabeth, so I will get your records updated and we will reissue last semesters transcripts and send them out to your home address, which is… let me check… Oh, Pemberley?”

“Yes.”

“Pemberley as in Pride and Prejudice?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re Lady Elizabeth Darcy?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

There was a prolonged silence and Lizzy was quite convinced that Barbara was broken.

“Is everything alright?”

The woman handed over the paperwork, nodding silently before sitting at her desk.

 

Lizzy reached the top of the hill and hurried towards the porch, desperate to get inside. Instinctively she turned left, before remembering and turning right to enter the house via the staff entrance, she popped her head into the estate office, leaving a cream cake on Maggie’s desk and a packet of TUC on Phil’s – he didn’t care for cake, but she had come to learn that he had a penchant for cheesy biscuits. She also popped a tin of biscuits on top of the volunteer sign-in sheets as she knew Winston had always done, he had always looked after the people who loved the house and she knew that wherever he was, that in the grand scheme of things, he had made the right decision to pass the house onto people who would look after better than they ever could have done. There had been small changes, ones that she hadn’t noticed at first – such as how red the carpet on the grand staircase was now it had been deep-cleaned, and how colourful the hideous Mortlake tapestries in the entrance hall were now years of dust and grime had been removed by professionals, rather than simply being vacuumed with the Henry by Mrs Reynolds. Reaching the door to her flat, she took a deep breath, fully aware that it would be freezing, dumping her shopping on the floor, she ran through to the bathroom, not noticing the figure sitting on the couch.

 

“Hello, Lizzy,” the cut-glass tones of Cara Dalhousie seemed hideously out of place coming from the tall, willowy woman with pink dreadlocks.

Lizzy was astonished to see the woman standing there, having only ever seen her on photographs. She was much taller than she had imagined and had a frostiness that was incongruous with her general appearance.

“Cara?” She crossed over with her hand outstretched, “so nice to meet you finally… Matthew told me so much about you.”

Cara did not take Lizzy’s hand, nor did she smile or move.

“Was that before or after you fucked him?”

She looked her straight in the eye, and Lizzy noticed that behind her green eyes there was a coldness that she had never experienced from anyone before.

“I beg your pardon?” Lizzy had gone to great lengths to avoid positioning herself anywhere near Matthew or his relationship, as far as she was concerned she was doing this herself. Her great-grandma did it and she was certain she possessed the necessary pre-requisites for raising a child singlehandedly.

Cara travelled across the room like lightning, “this bullshit might work on Matthew, but it sure as well won’t with me,” she hissed.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Lizzy said firmly. She felt cornered, wanted to push this leggy stranger out of the way and run down the stairs.

“That.” Cara pointed at Lizzy’s stomach. “My fiancé’s baby, I’m guessing.”

Lizzy was silent for a moment, before raising her voice demandingly “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter who told me?” She spoke with a sneer, a condescending tone mixed with a sadistic trill on her breath.

“Yes.”

“Maggie told me… Told Matthew. She thought he should know.” “That was Maggie’s decision then,” Lizzy said crossing her arms in defiance.

“And you’re claiming you had nothing to do with it, Lady Elizabeth?” She sniggered, “don’t be so ridiculous… You have obviously engineered this whole shitstorm and conveniently left it too late to do anything about it.”

Lizzy nodded, furiously, adamantly, “yes, obviously, bravo, that’s totally what I did. Well done.”

Cara eyed up her opposition; she didn’t understand what all the fuss had been about. When she had first met Matthew at some grotty student bar in Tooting he had been drinking to forget about the girl in Derbyshire who had broken his heart; Cara had comforted him and drank with him, showing him a new way of life that was perfectly acceptable if you had a massive trustfund and your dad owned half of Scotland. He had moved in with her within three weeks and she knew that she was in love with him the day he brought her home some organic tofu and a new yoga mat. They arranged to exchange positive affirmations under the gaze of a Shaman priest on the beach in Goa in the summer after graduation, and even though they didn’t believe in anything as conformist as marriage, she considered herself engaged and he bought her a silver ring encrusted with a huge moonstone from one of the new age stalls at Camden Lock. When he had returned from Derbyshire after the funeral, he was different, and she knew that something had happened. It hadn’t taken much to get the information from him and she made him promise never to contact this Lizzy again. He agreed, not wanting to lose her. There had been phonecalls from Derbyshire that were ignored, Cara recognising the area code; letters were thrown away without being opened; because the best way to pretend something didn’t happen is always to ignore it.

“You know, I never understood what he saw in you. You’re mediocre at best, Darcy.” She looked at Lizzy pitifully, tilting her head to one side. “He told me about that afternoon, up at the Lantern, told me how when he kissed you the only person he thought of was me, how he didn’t even enjoy it, didn’t even understand how you had managed to get pregnant it was that…disappointing.”

Lizzy thought that Cara’s anger was sorely misdirected. “Look, I know you are upset about this, but you are taking it out on the wrong person. I didn’t cheat on you, he did!”

“You let him!” she raised her voice, then composed herself. “And now we have to deal with this,” she pointed at the bump.

“You don’t have to deal with anything,” Lizzy said with a resoluteness in her voice. “I have never asked for your involvement.”

There was a moment of silence and the two women eyed each other up from across the room. Lizzy had always been taught to stand up for herself and she was not going to be bullied by a woman who was taking the moral high ground on behalf of her cheating boyfriend.

“Your issue is more to do with Matthew, and not with me, Cara. If he wants to be involved in this baby’s life then there is nothing I can do to stop it, and neither can you. I am sorry it happened this way, believe me this is not the way I envisaged it happening… but here we are.”

Quietly, in a low growl, “you will tell Matthew that you do not want him to be part of your child’s life.”

“I will do nothing of the sort,” Lizzy turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen. “Now unless you have something nice to say, I would like to you to leave…and for future reference, this area of the house is out of bounds to the general public.”

Cara stomped out of the flat, glaring as she did. Lizzy took a moment to regain her composure before sitting on the floor of the kitchen and crying her heart out.


	14. Chapter 14

**2001**

It was nearly eight o’clock when Maggie knocked on the door tentatively and walked into the small living room. She had helped her friend decorate in a warm yellow colour a few months before, but the colour did nothing to brighten up this dark evening. She knew that the letter she held in her hand did not contain the words that Lizzy wanted, and she was reluctant to hand it over. Matthew had already left a few hours before, chasing a stomping Cara as she headed towards her Range Rover. They were arguing, shrill expletives being scattered about, following by softer apologies, before escalating into shouts and screams on the driveway of the stables. Gary, the head ranger, had come out of the office and demanded that they take their disagreements elsewhere and they had sped off towards the driveway and then back down the M6 towards London. Maggie had been left with this message to deliver.

Lizzy was sitting on the ancient, balding velvet couch that didn’t go with anything and had wrapped herself in a thick woollen blanket. The room was freezing, and Maggie made two steaming mugs of coffee before lighting a fire in the large fireplace that dominated the room. She noticed that the mantel was covered in new pictures – photos of her friends from university, a picture of her little sister Imogen cuddling their even smaller brother Joe just after he was born in May, an old polaroid of Maggie and Lizzy cuddling on the grand staircase on Christmas Day, and a newer photograph of Winston from a few months before he died. She smiled sadly, looking over at the couch where Lizzy looked drawn and tired. Looking back, she noticed a scan picture that she hadn’t seen before, the image was clear, and she could see arms and legs now, rather than the indecipherable blur that she always pretended she could identify as a baby.

“Did you find out what you’re having?” She plonked herself down on the couch and passed Lizzy her mug of coffee from the table. The room was beginning to warm up now, the condensation on the arched windows starting to dissipate, Lizzy leaned over, breathed on the glass and wrote ‘girl’.

“You’re having a girl?” Maggie smiled happily. She had really wanted a niece, had already bought some little pink bootees and a tiny romper dotted with embroidered flowers. “Mum will be so happy.”

Lizzy smiled wanly, “I’m going to be able to do this, aren’t I?” Her eyes betrayed her insecurity, and she looked panicked, unsure, young.

“Yes,” Maggie said firmly, placing her arm on her friend’s shoulder, “you are Elizabeth Darcy and you are capable of wonderful things. You’re going to be a brilliant Mum!”

“I don’t even know how to be a Mum, I’ve never had one!”

“You don’t have to know, you will just know… does that make sense?”

Lizzy nodded, her eyes welling up with tears. It had been an emotional day and she hadn’t felt prepared to deal the onslaught from Cara who, quite frankly, was a complete horror pig of a woman.

“Yes,” she said with a recovering confidence. “Yes, I will be perfectly fine. I am a Darcy, and this is what we do.”

“Millicent raised two children and ran the whole estate all by herself, and she didn’t have me like you do.”

Lizzy felt a smile spread across her face, Maggie was right, she was much better off than lots of people in her position and she wasn’t going to forget her privilege. She lived in this huge flat, yes it was ridiculously cold and up three flights of stairs, but she didn’t have to pay any rent or bills as these were covered by the estate, and she had a generous allowance each month from her inheritance from Winston, who had ensured that she would be well looked after. In reality, she could afford to comfortably look after herself and the baby, as well as continuing her studies – she even had Maggie and Jean over at the stables who would help her if she needed. She didn’t need Matthew Wickham and his stupid face to help her; she understood why Cara was angry, but Lizzy hadn’t cheated on her, Matthew had cheated on her and she was quite happy to let him into her bed every night, maybe she should try making him be accountable for his bullshit, maybe that would help her align her chakras or whatever crap it was that she needed to do.

Maggie could see the thoughts running through Lizzy’s head as she formulated her plan, and then she saw her face as she noticed the letter from Matthew sitting on the table; she knew his writing immediately, the spindly but firm letters imprinted on the envelope – ‘Lizard’. She had hated the nickname, given to her by Charlie and Matthew one summer as she spent almost a fortnight basking in the sunshine near the lake; the name had stuck and by the end of August even Winston was calling her it. Seeing it on the envelope she was cross that he dared to recall this earlier affection, annoyed that he was playing on their history together. She picked up the envelope and threw it on the fire.

“Lizzy, what have you done that for?” Maggie jumped up and tried to pull the letter from the blaze with the poker, but it was too late. “Why did you do that? Do you not care what he had to say?”

“No,” her face had turned cold and emotionless, as she watched the final fragments of the letter disappear into the flames. “If he had anything of worth to say, he would be here saying it to my face rather than sending a letter.”

“Do you not think you owe it to him to have read it at least?” Maggie was always careful to defend her brother, most of the time he was usually in the wrong, but this time she wasn’t sure. She had seen how heartbroken he had been when Lizzy had said they should split up, she had understood her reasons for the decision; they were living at different ends of the country, she was living in Manchester during the week and either coming back to Pemberley to see Winston, who had been hit by a particularly bad chest infection, or travelling down to London on the Friday night Megabus to spend a few precious days with Matthew. Lizzy had known something had to give, even if only for while so that she could sort it all out and she let Matthew know her decision one afternoon as they had walked up to the Lantern. He had stormed off; shocked, unsure, then angry, furious that she had made the decision without even consulting him and he had cried and shouted at his sister that evening, before sobbing on her bed and falling asleep.

“No, Maggie,” she said firmly, jutting out her chin. Maggie looked at the younger woman, she was still a child really, would need all the help she could get. Jean and Maggie were determined to play active roles in the baby’s life, knowing that Lizzy had no immediate family nearby.

“Okay, I understand,” Maggie said softly. “Shall we go and get a curry?”

“Only if we can have it delivered because I cannot deal with that hill again today!”

Maggie laughed, “okay, you win!”

The two women snuggled under a blanket, ordered their curry, and watched something trashy on the television whilst the baby started to push and kick and proved to be much more entertaining.

* * *

 

**2002**

Hugh Darcy thought that little Harriet was the cutest little button that he had ever seen, he could see the family resemblance – the grey eyes, the sharp chin, the upturned nose -  but he could also see that she had inherited her father’s darker countenance too.  She was now six months old, shrieking and laughing as he bounced her on his knee. His own youngest son, Joe, was not quite two and Hugh felt every one of his forty-seven years as he chased the boy around, he hadn’t remembered it being this hard when Charlie and Lizzy were younger. Harriet was dressed up in the family Christening gown and had been baptised at St Thomas’s Church in Lambton. As the visiting Duke, there had been a bit of local press and the photographer, Harold, from the Matlock Chronicle had been sent over for a few pictures. They had shared a surreptitious cigarette behind the church before Hugh had organised his family into well-posed pictures.

They retreated to Pemberley for the reception and it had taken all of Hugh’s persuasion, charm and a generous donation to convince Brian Whitfield, the HHS House Manager, to let them use the Dining Room for their celebration. The phone call had started out fine, until Brian had spoken to his curator, Joyce, who had raised concerns about the furnishings and the family use of the room, which was a very popular part of the house tour. They would have to close and there would be a loss of revenue. Hugh had opened his chequebook and promised to loan the use of a rare, and frankly hideous, dining service as a gesture of goodwill, simply to be able to use a room in his family’s ancestral home to welcome the Hon Harriet Sophia Darcy into the world.

Lizzy had not wanted all this drama, but she understood that her dad wanted to play the part of proud grandfather and carry on their family traditions. The first was the christening gown, which had been made by Elspeth Darcy back in the 1860’s, the exquisite and delicate embroidery all being the lady’s own work; the second was the family toast with the stirrup glasses that were now kept in a box under Lizzy’s bed; the third was the gifting of the ring – each Darcy family member, whether male or female, was given a signet ring with the Darcy coat of arms and their name engraved inside. It was a completely chance whether the ring would fit by the time you were of age to wear it and Lizzy found hers had obviously been made for a small child and had not fit since she was nine, but maybe that was due to her love of cake rather than any failing by the jeweller. She watched as her dad continued the pageantry and ceremony in the grand opulence of this glorious room, surrounded by portraits of their ancestors on every wall. Hugh was dressed in his Duke Suit, she called it – handmade on Saville Row, it was the deepest navy blue and made him look very regal as he addressed the members of his family as the Darcy Patriarch. Uncle Jeremy was here without his wife, Jude, who was dealing with a complex human rights case and had to remain in London. Jeremy had offered to let her complete her LPC at his firm the following year and invited her and Harriet to stay with them at Longbourn for as long as she wished. Aunty Julia, now bleached blonde and with skin like creosote, brought a giftcard for Mothercare and a bottle of Moet, which she drank herself. Charlie was still in Thailand and probably too busy partying every night to even think about getting a flight, but he had sent a card which for him was a massive feat.

There was a string quartet in the corner and Lizzy was impressed at how much her dad had spent in order to celebrate her daughter’s birth; when she had told him, he had been fairly relaxed about the situation, although Carol had been shrill and disapproving, refusing to allow Lizzy to visit at Christmas, instead she had spent the day with Winston’s sister Sybil over in Kympton, who had regaled her with tales of general debauchery from her time in Vegas during the fifties, which would have been fascinating if not being told by your eighty-five year old great aunt over Christmas Dinner. Imogen, her blonde curls bigger than her head, was running wild around the room, bashing into things and twirling about under the sparkling chandelier, Lizzy ran over and picked her sister up, spinning her around and hearing her laughter, which was louder than the elegant music. They ran off in the direction of the Stag Parlour and later could be seen rolling down the sloping hills at the top end of the lawn as Carol tutted disapprovingly.

Jean Wickham posed for pictures with her granddaughter, who looked so much like her late husband that sometimes she became overwhelmed with the remembrance that he wasn’t here to share these special moments with her. John had died when Matthew had been a similar age and this celebration had upset her for two reasons. Firstly, her son was not here to take his place at the altar, to claim this beautiful baby as his own; secondly, Harriet was a Darcy, she was not and never would be a Wickham. Jean felt as if the child’s heritage was being erased for the sake of keeping up appearances and it made her feel sad to think that her only grandchild would not bear her father’s name, regardless of how prestigious it was to be a member of the Darcy family, Harriet was a Wickham too.

Steve Carter felt out of place mixing with, as the rest of the staff put it, the hoi-polloi. The stiffness of his shirt made him feel uncomfortable, and he had felt completely gormless standing up at the altar holding a candle and promising to be Harriet’s godfather. He didn’t even believe in God. The day of her birth still troubled him – he had been completing his first Duty Manager overnight shift, staying in the small staff flat that occupied two rooms in the corner of the second floor and watching The Sopranos, when he heard the radio alarm in the long gallery and hurried over to find Lady Liz dressed in her pyjamas, water all over the floor. He had initially thought that there had been a leak until she shouted at him and he realised that she was in labour. Steve had quickly raised the alarm at the gatehouse, Don had driven up in the minibus and they had all raced to the hospital, Steve remembered an episode of Casualty and hoped that he wouldn’t have to deliver the baby. He had heard that blood was horrible to get out of clothes and car upholstery and he knew that as one of the more junior members of staff that this job would inevitably fall to him. When they had reached the hospital, everyone assumed he was the father and he was bundled into the delivery room despite his protestations. It was only an hour later when Harriet Darcy arrived and Steve passed out. Despite this, when Lady Liz  - ‘Steve, please call me Lizzy, you have seen my lady bits’ – had asked him to be Harriet’s godfather he had accepted and bought his new suit from Burtons, with a bit of help from his mum who would cut out the pictures from the Matlock Chronicle and keep them safe, bragging to her friends at Lambton WI about her youngest son being little Harriet Darcy’s godfather.

Maggie played the role of godmother beautifully and she had looked at Peter wistfully, wondering when they would have a baby of their own. He had grumbled off and gone to get food as she walked around the room with Harriet, pointing out the portraits of King James II, Lady Mary of Derbyshire and Hortense Holland, the baby had smiled and squirmed in her arms, and they ended up sitting on a bench outside in the summer sunshine, Maggie feeding her niece and cuddling her under the blanket. She had text Matthew that morning, letting him know that it was the baby’s special day today and to thank him for the gift. He had sent over a small token – a little pillow with ‘Harriet’ sewn onto it. She didn’t want to give it to Lizzy as she knew she would reject it, and she knew that Matthew had tried with his gift. She had felt sorry for her brother, knowing that he wanted to know his daughter, wanted to be the father he himself had never had, but he feared the wrath of both Lizzy and Cara. The only person who would miss out on this would be Harriet. Maggie nuzzled the now-sleeping baby, inhaling her warm, milky smell and hugging her tight, hoping that she could appeal to Lizzy to offer an olive branch to Matthew sooner rather than later.

Lizzy’s bright yellow polka dot dress might have gained a few grass stains, her sister’s pale pink skirt and expensive chiffon top might have gained a few more. As they walked back towards the garden entrance hand in hand, laughing and chatting, she could see Carol admonishing their father and pointing at them both. Turning around, they walked off towards the Orangery, deciding that smelling pretty flowers and playing the fountain was much more fun than being told off by the grown-ups.

“Are you excited for school, Imo?” Lizzy asked, prising a daffodil from her sister’s hand.

“No, I don’t want to go to school,” Imogen pouted, jutting out her chin in exactly the same way that she did herself.

“But it will be exciting, you will get to have fun and learn new things and then Mummy, or Daddy or Jacinta will pick you up and you can tell them all about it.”

“Mummy says that I will be sleeping at school and I don’t want to.”

Lizzy looked at the girl questioningly, surely, they weren’t sending her away to board…No, that couldn’t be right, she had only just turned four in February, there must be some misunderstanding.

“What do you think of Harriet?”

“She’s okay, babies are boring though. Joe is boring, he just cries all the time and makes Mummy cross.”

“Do you know that you are Harriet’s Aunty, Imogen?”

“I’m Aunty Imo?” The little girl’s face looked confused. “But I cannot be an Aunty, I am too little.”

“I think you are super big now! Look,” she said picking her up and lifting her high, “you can reach the top of the fountain, only the biggest girls can do that!”

“I’m the biggest girl!!” She shrieked.

Lizzy swung her back down again and Imogen looked up at her beaming, “Lizard, I promise that I will be the bestest Aunty ever to my Harriet and I will love her forever and ever.” She held out her little finger to be shaken. “Pinky promise.”

“Pinky promise,” Lizzy smiled. “Now, shall we go and get cake?”

Harriet ran off screaming in the direction of the house and Lizzy was surprised to see her dad emerge from the side of the Orangery, where he had obviously been having a cigarette, hiding from the disapproving gaze of Carol. He walked over and placed his arm gently on her shoulder before kissing the top of her head.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“My pleasure, Lady Elizabeth.”

She looked up at him and grinned, “I don’t think I will ever get used to that.”

“Me neither,” he laughed. “I went to Harrods last week and the man behind the counter kept calling me ‘Your Grace’, I find it fascinating.”

“I find it fascinating that you go to Harrod for groceries, Daddy,” she looked up at him and rolled her eyes. She knew it was more about Carol trying to maintain a certain level of appearance rather than her dad wanting to do the weekly shop at Harrods. When she had been little she vaguely remembered being dragged around Kwik Save by her mum who had always loved a bargain. It had been strange growing up without a mum, which had made Patricia’s death from breast cancer when she was eleven a weird emotional anomaly, where she knew that she should be sad, but couldn’t bring herself to cry or mourn the loss of someone who she had never really known.

“How is Charlie with the new title? Earl of Berks!” She looked at her dad and then started to laugh uncontrollably. “I can’t think of anything more fitting.”

“You know full well that it’s Earl of BARK-shire,” he corrected with his serious face, before laughing too. “Although, Earl of BERKshire, is probably more apt for your brother….” Hugh deep sighed, “oh look at us, Lizzy, tenants in our own house. Did we do the right thing?”

Lizzy looked around the house, the summer months had produced another army of volunteers who swarmed upon the house daily; tidying, fixing, repairing, cleaning. They had made the right decision; Pemberley had to continue after they had gone and this way, it would.

“Yes, we did,” she smiled up at him. “Apart from Joyce, she is a harridan.”

“Joyce?” Hugh remembered a young woman called Joyce who used to work there when he was at Oxford, she had been funny, battling him with her sharp wit and disregard for his position, treating him as a regular chap off the street. He had enjoyed their brief interludes, until the summer after his graduation he had come home, and she wasn’t there anymore, gotten married and popped out some sprogs probably. “It’s not Joyce Hutchinson, is it?”

“Yes,” she nodded with a curious expression on her face.  “Do you know her?”

Hugh Darcy smiled wistfully, “I did know her once upon a time.” He took his eldest daughter’s arm in his own and they went back to the party the long way around, laughing and chatting softly as they walked down the steps and ventured up familiar paths. On the lawn a few visitors, pointed and waved at the Duke, who they recognised from his portrait in the hallway, and he took his time to acknowledge them and welcome them to Pemberley. From her vantage point in the library, Joyce Hutchinson saw Hugh Darcy for the first time in too long and she was disappointed that her heart still skipped a beat.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for distracting with this huge flashback section, but it is necessary - promise! Thank you for reading :) x

** 2005 **

The days were long in London, and not as much as Lizzy had thought they would have been. Uncle Jeremy worked her hard, knowing that he could get the best out of her whilst she was still hungry for it, but was she? It would have been different if she had been living in the city with friends, but she was commuting out each night back to Longbourn, her spare time filled with studying for the LPC, or tear-filled phonecalls back to Derbyshire where she realised that she missed Harriet so much that her heart physically ached. Meanwhile Harriet, was having the time of her life, staying at the Stables with Aunt Maggie and Grammy, who doted on her; she was even learning how to ride on her small pony, Peanut, courtesy of Maggie’s on-again-off-again boyfriend, Peter. As Mark piled another binder of paperwork on top of her desk, Lizzy sighed audibly at him; that was it, she was going out for a big drink.

The bar was smoky and crowded, the dull thud of music vibrating underfoot – it was half six on a Friday night in Soho, the room filled with every type of person you could imagine, and all pushing for attention at the bar. If she hadn’t felt out of place before, she did now, dressed in her tailored suit and wearing heels that were slightly too high and painful to boot. Catching the attention of the pierced friendly girl behind the bar, she ordered a large vodka and coke and retreated over to the cigarette machine. If Lizzy was getting drunk, then she was planning on smoking at least ten Marlboro Lights and making it worth her while, she took a large swig of her drink, feeling the delicious, familiar warmth of it rush down her throat. She hadn’t had a proper drink like this since arriving in London and it was hitting the spot. Lighting her cigarette, she made her way to the edge of the room and stood there observing for a moment.

And then she saw him.

Over in the corner of the room, Matthew was surrounded by an entourage of friends; laughing, drinking, enjoying the success of his recent BAFTA nomination. She could recognise his laugh anywhere and it felt sad somehow to be on the outside looking in. He had grown his hair out a bit longer than she was used to, had grown a stubbly beard, was wearing a fitted shirt and tailored trousers, looking so different, but so similar that she felt overwhelmed with it all. She hadn’t expected to feel like this, hadn’t expected to feel the prickle of anxiety run all over her back, hadn’t expected that seeing him again – for the first time since they had spent the afternoon together in the Lantern – would make her feel so helpless as her heart thudded in her chest, almost to the beat of the music. Despite wanting to hate him for the lies and the deceit, Lizzy knew that part of her would always love Matthew Wickham and she hated herself for it. Stubbing her cigarette out on the floor, she downed her drink and pushed her way out of the bar. The cool air of the early evening felt great against her face and she stood for moment, before getting her bearings and walking towards the tube.

“Lizzy!”

Her name echoed on the street, causing a few people walking to turn around and look before carrying on with their Friday night plans. She didn’t want to look back, taking a deep breath and carrying on walking.

“Lizzy!”

She stopped, nervous energy popping along her spine.

“Hello, Matthew.”

“Hey Lizard,” he said softly. “Long time no see.”

 

They sat on the benches in the centre of Leicester Square. For Lizzy it seemed like a bittersweet location, being where they had spent an afternoon playing hooky during a college trip to London, when they should have been taking arty photographs, but instead ended up eating Ben and Jerrys Phish Food from over-priced concessions and people watching.

“How have you been?” He didn’t look at her, instead gazing off into the far distance.

“I’ve been good,” she said firmly. “You?”

“Well yeah, things are good with me. Really good,” he reached over and, without looking at her, put his hand on hers. “How’s Harriet?”

“She looks like you,” she turned to face him, and he looked at her. They were the parents of a three year old and yet it felt as if they were seventeen years old again, tentatively sharing their feelings when feelings were new and everything was to play for.

“She has your eyes.”

Lizzy nodded, “yes, she does. Darcy eyes.”

They looked at each other again, Matthew looked at the mother of his child and he wished with all of his heart that it could have been different. Wished that he had stood up to Cara when she told him her list of demands and screamed at her that he rejected each and every  one of them.

“Lizzy,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”

She put her hand on top of his and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Me too.”

He leaned over and took her in his arms, giving her a hug that had been well-rehearsed before nuzzling his face into her neck. She smelled like home.

“I don’t think I ever got over you,” he said to her. “I think you will always have a piece of my heart.”

“I think that film-making is making you overly romantic, Mr Wickham.”

“I have always been romantic, but you never appreciated it, with your swinging brick of a heart.”

She smiled, “I did appreciate it…every single time.”

He looked away from her now, down at his shoes, anywhere apart from her face softly illuminated by the neon of Leicester Square.

 

It was midnight when they stumbled back into Matthew’s flat, their inhibitions reduced by the copious number of cocktails that they had drunk in Chiquito’s, before they were politely asked to leave by the bouncer for causing too much noise. From there they had gone to a karaoke bar in the depths of the West End, singing terrible songs and dancing on the stage, and they had fallen into each other’s arms and kissed passionately on the street outside, until a kindly WPC asked them to move along and hailed them a cab. They had fallen into the house, barely opening the doors before leaving a trail of clothes to the bedroom.  

The morning after was altogether different, she had tried to kiss him, and he hadn’t responded, making her feel small and flat. Grabbing her clothes and shoes, she left before eight am. He didn’t even get out of bed to wave her goodbye. It was Saturday and she was going home to see Harriet, rushing back to Longbourn, she managed to make the train to Manchester with time to spare. Her phone buzzed some point past Milton Keynes.

M: I need to tell you this.

L: Okay

M: I haven’t been happy in so long and seeing you last night made me realise that, you make me happy. Not in a smiley way, but a deep down in my heart way.  

L: Are you going to tell me that you’re dying?

M: I wish this could have been different, I wish that we were raising Harriet together, that we were together.

L: You never know what could happen.

M: Love you, Lizard x

L: ***Message undeliverable***

L: *Message undeliverable***

The lights were all on at Pemberley when she got home, Maggie had been to tidy the flat and had put a shepherd’s pie in the oven, waiting until she got back. Harriet was already fast asleep, and Lizzy went up, kissing on the forehead and tucking the blanket up under her chin. Slumping on the sofa in her PJ’s and watching some crap on the tv, she grabbed a pile of unopened post. Bill.

Bill.

Junk.

Catalogue Junk.

HHS Membership Card.

And then a soft lilac envelope addressed to her and Harriet in a beautifully handwritten script.

 

Andrew and Olivia Dalhousie

cordially invite you to celebrate the

happy union of their daughter

Caralyne Laura & Matthew George Wickham

Oh, she thought. So that’s that.


	16. Chapter 16

** 2006 **

Hugh Darcy had never really appreciated Pemberley when he lived here, it was always unbearably cold, especially in winter and his memories of coming home from school for the holidays were of being freezing and coughing from the smoky fires, which were never cleaned often enough. His room, called the Mahogany Room due to being panelled from floor to ceiling in the deep dark wood, had two windows which faced the lake, and both rattled when the wind rushed over the moorland. During one particularly harsh winter, when the ice on the lake was thick and the roads out of the estate unnavigable, the Darcy boys had been banned from donning their skates; so instead they opened all the windows in the Long Gallery, tipped water all over the floor and waited for it to freeze. It didn’t, of course, but Jeremy and Hugh felt the icy wrath of Mrs Reynolds, who demanded that they clean up before their father discovered what had happened. Hugh had secretly been hoping that Winston would find out and send them back to the warmth of school as punishment, but he didn’t, and they spent an afternoon soaking up freezing cold water with rags before being sent to bed without supper, although Staughton did send up buttered seed cake and tea after Mrs Reynolds had gone to bed.

Summer had always been wonderful at Pemberley; especially when their mother decamped to London to star in a show in the West End, or off to Pinewood to film the terrible comedies that she still regularly appeared in. Sylvia Pratchett had only been twenty-two when she married the dashing Duke of Derbyshire, even if he was old enough to be her father. She reminded him of this frequently, particularly in the divorce papers that arrived two days after Hugh’s thirteen birthday, which she had conveniently forgotten.  The baton of motherhood passed to Aunt Sybil; who had returned from America when she discovered, after fifteen years of marriage, that her handsome GI husband was actually someone else’s handsome GI husband too. Sybil, truly the daughter of a suffragette, took the Darcy children under her wing and introduced them to Pemberley the best way she knew how – by adventures. There was boating on the lake, a mini-Olympics on the lawn, orienteering in the woods, climbing at the Lantern – a broken arm for Hugh, a broken ankle for Jeremy – and baking cakes and pies in the kitchens, much to the chagrin of the staff.

Joyce was walking up towards the Orangery when she spotted the Duke walking towards her. He must be here to see the girls, she thought, as she mentally worked out where she could walk to avoid him. But it was no use, she was halfway past the portico and couldn’t turn back on herself, it would be too obvious. No, she would have to walk past him and be courteous. Pretend that she didn’t recognise him. She smoothed down her uniform as she walked, hoped that she looked presentable. She surreptitiously looked up under the fringe of her honey blonde bob, casually glancing at him. He looked the same as she remembered; his dark curls may be sprinkled with silver, his eyes a little crinkly, but he was the same man who she had fallen in love with over the course of a summer; she had been working every hour as a house guide to help pay bills and he had been languishing about with nothing to do. He had joined her tour more than once, asking tricky questions that he knew she couldn’t answer, purposely trying to annoy her; he apologised afterwards and pulled her up onto his horse, riding hard to the top of Cage hill with her clinging on to his waist for dear life; there was swimming in the pond on the hottest day of the year and she had screamed at him when he had thrown a frog at her; on their last night they had taken the Duke’s expensive telescope onto the roof to look at the stars, it had accidentally fallen down the stairs with an ominous thud as they ended up sharing kisses and sweet nothings. Joyce had known that it could only be fleeting, could never be more than what it was, and she cherished her memories of that glorious Pemberley summer. Now here he was again, standing in front of her, saying hello.

Joyce found herself inadvertently doing a little bob, “Your Grace”, before moving to walk past him.

“Joyce” he said hesitantly. He would have recognised her anywhere; remembering her face in vague memories that were tinted with the heat of the sun, the sound of laughter and the smell of strawberry shampoo.

“Sir,” she tucked her hair behind her ear, smiled brightly. “Nice to see again…after all these years.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “You haven’t changed at all, you’re the same as I remember.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, “Hugh.”

“Well this is a surprise, I turn up here for Harriet’s first day at school and here you are. I knew you worked here, of course, but I have never seen you about when I’ve visited.” They began to walk together, inadvertently walking in step with each other down towards the west front of the house overlooking the Dutch garden.  

“I’ve been here for five years now,” she turned the bleeping radio down. After the near-miss at the Christening, Joyce had scheduled her own rota to purposely avoid times when Hugh would be here. It was awkward, especially when the Duchess was here too, lording it over everyone as if she thought she truly was the lady of the manor, rather than a hotel receptionist who had caught Hugh’s eye on lonely work trip to Doncaster, which is what she was. Joyce wasn’t a snob when it came to rank and titles, but there was a difference between class and breeding and Carol Darcy, Duchess of Derbyshire, had neither.

“Five years, crikey! Does that qualify you for a special award or something?”

“No, unfortunately not, but I do get to work here every day and it’s still my favourite place in the world.”

“It always was, wasn’t it?” he twisted on his signet ring, suddenly feeling slightly nervous as he fiddled with the cuffs on his shirt. “I never understood, not until recently, why you always loved this place so much.”

“Pemberley is magic,” she grinned. “It casts a spell on you, I think.”

“Maybe I keep thinking about the bouts of influenza that Pemberley cast on me during the many, many cold winters!”

They reached the edge of the gardens and stood for a moment in silence before the radio made a racket that she couldn’t ignore.

“I have to go, but it’s been lovely seeing you again.”

“Yes, it has been lovely.” He held her gaze a little longer than either of them felt comfortable with before Joyce walked away firmly in the direction of the house. Hugh watched for longer than was necessary before walking purposefully in the opposite direction and back upstairs where Lizzy and Harriet were waiting for him.

“Grandad Duke, where have you been?” Harriet scolded playfully, taking a seat on his lap. She was wearing the navy-blue cardigan of St David’s Primary and shiny, patent shoes with a velvet bow. Hugh bounced her on his knee for a moment as she giggled and laughed before Lizzy came in with a cafetiere and two mugs on a tray, Harriet jumped down and greedily grabbed at the small jug of milk, wanting to finish it off as a treat.

“Yeah Dad, where have you been?” Lizzy raised her eyebrow at him before taking a seat on the sofa and drinking her coffee thirstily.

“For a walk around the grounds, can a man not spend time walking about his own damn estate nowadays?”

“Not without paying for admission, usually…”

They drank their coffee silently, punctured by the occasional yell from Harriet as she attempted to plait the hair on her Bratz doll.

“Mr Wickham is meeting us there then, is he?” Hugh asked with a certain level of cynicism that he reserved for his granddaughter’s father.

“Daddy! Daddy Daddy Daddy!!!” Harriet jumped up and started dancing about the room, probably still remembering the trip to Disneyland and heaps of presents that she received the last time her father visited. Lizzy visibly growled, remember the sobs and tears that followed his visits as their daughter struggled with the confusion of getting to know her dad, with the confusion of being unable to understand why he lived so far away and couldn’t see her every day.

“Will Mrs Wickham be joining us today?” Hugh raised an eyebrow at Lizzy, who pulled a face.

“No, the baby is due the week after next I think, and she’s stayed in London just in case.”

“Just in case you try and steal her man?”

“Dad, if I had wanted to steal her man surely her being in London would be a great opportunity to do it?”

Hugh hadn’t thought about that. He smiled at his daughter before finishing his coffee, placing the cup down gently and picking up Harriet from the floor, swinging her onto his shoulders.

“Come on, Harry. Let’s get you to school!”

Harriet cheered loudly, almost banging her head on the door frame as she swung about. Lizzy grabbed the tiny school coat, lunchbox and bag. At the advice of Deb from work, she grabbed a few tissues and shoved them down her bra – she didn’t cry at many things, but she was almost entirely convinced that today there would be floods of tears and she wanted to be prepared.


	17. Chapter 17

It was a crisp October morning at the top of Cage Hill, the countryside below was turning from soft green to burnished orange, the change of the seasons cascading throughout the landscape. Harriet had been there since before six taking pictures of The Cage for her college project. She loved the way that it stood on the skyline, sometimes looking gigantic, and other times miniscule, and she had walked around the edges of the park taking photographs from different angles trying to capture the grand majesty of the ancient building that had dominated the skyline since Henry VIII was King. Walking past Mr Darcy’s horse chestnut tree, she noticed some conkers lying on the floor, snatching at them she peeled off the spiky shell to reveal the beautiful soft seed inside. Darcy conkers had always been the best ones, even better than the ones from the massive old horse chestnut tree in Lambton, which is where the cutting from this tree had come from, apparently. Harriet smoothed the conkers in her hand until they looked like polished gems, satisfied with their prettiness she began her descent towards Pemberley.

At the edge of the hill there was a large protruding rock which came up to her shoulder; when Harriet had been younger Lizzy had lifted her up to it and swung her down to the ground, it felt like flying as she had been spun round and round, the horizon fading to a blur before they fell about giggling on the hillside. It had also been in this spot on a cold, cruel December night that Fitzwilliam Darcy had died; his body being found the next morning by servants from the house who had been sent up the hill to look for him in the waist deep snow. Harriet hoped that, wherever he was in spirit, her six times great grandfather approved of her superior conkers, soaked in vinegar and baked in the oven, which had thrashed everyone else’s. She took a moment to look at the tributes written on the rock; quotes from Pride and Prejudice, drawings of the various actors who had played Mr Darcy, was that a bra? Harriet thought it was crazy how people were so in love with the fictional version of him as depicted on stage, screen and in a copious number of books – most of which you could buy in the Pemberley gift shop. She pulled the two conkers from her pocket and gently placed them next to a postcard of the real Fitzwilliam; her own small tribute to Mr Darcy, the very real man who was responsible for so much more than simply being rude to women at parties.

The doors of Pemberley were now closed to the public for eight weeks, however it would reopen for the whole of December to accommodate the Regency Christmas and a special exhibition about Mabel Darcy. The production team had returned to film the Netherfield Ball inside the grandeur of Pemberley’s banqueting hall,  and were currently setting up and resizing and lighting and balancing, all under the watchful eye of Joyce and the conservation team who were there to ensure that there was no further damage to the precious and priceless interiors. Harriet loitered at the north front gate, observing the dozens of people milling about like ants all over the house, before walking down the hill to the car park and knocking on the door of her dad’s trailer. There was no answer, so she stepped up to the large door of the Winnebago and popped her head in.

“Dad?” She looked to the left and right but could not see him. She put her bag down on the seats in front of her, before making a hot chocolate at the brew station behind her – location filming always had the best hot chocolate, and she had never known why, but drinking it in the relative luxury of her dad’s trailer had always been one of the highlights of being on location. This time had been much more fun than usual as she had got to do something; usually it was about as much fun as sitting in the offices of Winchester, Sparrow and Jones, playing with the photocopier and waiting for her mum to finish with a client. Her friends from school didn’t understand how visiting a film set could be so boring, but most summers her dad’s filming schedule dominated holiday plans; last year she ended up spending three whole weeks playing Minecraft with Oleander at some grotty little industrial estate in Kent rather than going to Florida like they had been promised. Sitting down and taking her copy of ‘Persuasion’ out of her bag she slurped on her drink and read a few pages before, frustrated by Captain Wentworth, she decided to text her dad to see where he was. He was usually on set by now, especially on days like this when his full control freak mode set in and everybody walked on eggshells until he was happy. Somewhere she could hear his distinctive text tone – his own voice at his Oscar acceptance speech – sounding somewhere in the trailer. She decided to ring; the theme music from Ubiquitous sounded out loudly, emanating from the bathroom, the deep bass vibrating against the wall and the pitchy violins sounding sharp and shrill.

“Dad, are you on the loo?”

“Harriet, can I meet you up at the house in about ten minutes?”

He sounded strange and she felt that she must question it.

“Are you alright in there?” she pushed, “is this like when we went to Mexico and you were wee-pooing for three days?”

There was a noise that she thought was someone stifling a laugh; there was someone here.

“No, H, it’s okay… I’ll see you up there, okay?”

The forced joviality in his voice was an obvious sign that he was trying to get rid of her now. There was definitely someone else here. She quickly scouted around the room looking for clues, but there was nothing obvious, which meant that he was getting much cleverer at hiding his various infidelities. Harriet wasn’t one to judge her father, but she wished that he tried a little bit. It made sense now that he had been away on location since June, and that neither Cara or the boys would answer her FaceTime calls, she had probably already caught him and was busy working out her next move, not needing the hassle of his other random child to confuse things.

“Okay, I’ll meet you at the shop. You can buy me some fudge.”

“Yeah, course!” She was convinced his voice had raised an octave.  “See you in a bit!”

Harriet grabbed her bag, stomped over to the door, opened it and then closed it again before sitting on the sofa, just hidden from the view of the bathroom. It only took a minute or two before her father emerged, dishevelled and post-coital, followed by Tamsin McLeod, who was smiling until she saw the frowning face of Harriet Darcy in the corner of the room.

“Are you actually kidding me, Dad?”

“Harriet, I... Uhm... you said you were… uhm,” his eyes darted from Harriet to Tamsin. “I can explain this, please don’t tell Cara… or your mother…”

“You know he’s married, right?” she addressed Tamsin directly, the tiny blonde looking incredibly young without her professional make-up. “He’s like twenty years older than you, you could do much better… what happened to Rowan? He’s gorgeous! Please don’t tell me you sacked off Rowan Morris for my dad, because you would need your head checking if you have. Look at him, he’s ancient!”

She pointed at her dad, seeing a man who was nearly forty and, in her eyes, super old. Tamsin didn’t see what Harriet saw, instead she saw a deeply attractive man in his late thirties who was in a bad marriage, and she knew that she could put all of his broken pieces back together, even if that meant moving to LA and living in his big house for a while, and whilst she was there she was certain she would be able to pick up some work, surely that would be much easier if she was sleeping with Matthew Wickham, even if he was fifteen years older than her. The role of Lydia should prove to be her breakout one, finally she would get away from playing studious nerds and could finally aim for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl roles that had so far eluded her. Tamsin, her blonde hair rumpled and her eyes like saucers, looked from Harriet to Matthew, then grabbed her shoes and bag, which she had hidden in a cupboard, before quietly exiting the trailer. Harriet stood looking at the father with her hand on her hips.

“You look exactly like your mother when you do that.”

“I expected better of you – she’s like twelve!”

“She’s twenty-three, Harry, I think you’re being slightly judgmental.”

“Slightly judgmental? Are you not slightly married?”

Matthew sighed, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand adult relationships. They’re more complicated than changing your Facebook status, you know.”

Harriet rolled her eyes at her dad, “wow, that’s not patronising at all, is it?” She picked up her bag and began to walk towards the door of the trailer. “Nobody uses Facebook anymore.”

“Don’t come in here and speak to me like that,” he protested. “Things haven’t been great with Cara and me for ages now, she barely tolerates me being there.”

“Get divorced then,” she sighed, “and grow up!”

Harriet slammed out of the trailer and Matthew slumped down on the hard leather seats of the Winnebago. He should feel remorse, but he didn’t. He liked the way Tamsin looked at him as if he was the greatest thing since sliced bread; how she had flirted and flattered his ego, pandering to the underlying arrogance that came with success that the other woman in his life – Lizzy, Cara and now Harriet – refused to do. It’s not as if he made a habit of cheating on his wife, but the occasional dalliance away on location made him feel desired and wanted in a way that his wife of fifteen years didn’t. Harriet didn’t understand adult relationships, didn’t understand the hard work that it took to align your life with someone else’s, the dreary monotony of monogamy. He had married too young, too fast, too foolishly and these little trysts were his way of rewarding himself for not having a permanent girlfriend on the East Coast like so many of his peers. No, Harriet could sod off – she was the one who needed to grow up and realise that life wasn’t a romantic comedy where everyone got what they wanted and lived happily ever after. Sitting in the shadow of the great house where he had grown up, Matthew Wickham was beginning to wish that he hadn’t come back to Derbyshire.


	18. Chapter 18

Lizzy sat in the chair feeling everyone of her thirty-seven years as she was primped and preened and prodded by the make-up artists of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ next to the gaggle of twenty-something actresses who were playing the Bennet sisters. She felt out of place, being the only ‘supporting artist’ to be in the same area as the actual stars of the film, and even though she knew it had been arranged to make her feel a bit special and important, it just made her feel awkward.  Sitting there reading her book, her mad curls had already been tamed and pinned up into an authentically intricate Regency ‘do’ and then been wrapped in chiffon and pinned again to stop any movement whilst she was taken to costume. The dress that she had been fitted for was phenomenal; the puffed sleeves were trimmed in gold brocade, which matched the detailing to the front. Made from royal blue silk, it crinkled when she walked, the stiff fabric and the underlying petticoats noisily rubbing against her legs. Although it was hemmed to the perfect length and she didn’t need to lift it, she felt the need to, personifying the wretched yet resolute Jane Austen character that she was somehow becoming by osmosis. For the last few months she had felt very much like an Anne Elliot rather than any one of the Bennet sisters, even Mary seemed to have been living her best life.

Lizzy walked across the courtyard, eager to see the preparations taking place inside. She had been strictly forbidden from using the grand staircase since the production trucks had arrived as Pemberley was retrofitted back to the 1800s. The finale of the Netherfield Ball ended with a long sweeping shot throughout the rooms where the action took place and Matthew was currently walking through the action with the Steadicam operator as they planned the complicated series of shots and sequences that were all detailed minutely. For all his many faults, Matthew really was a tremendously good director and producer, totally passionate about any project that he embarked upon and she was glad that he had decided to tackle this one. She stood at the edge of the action self-consciously, looking around the room that she had known all her life transformed into the majestic ballroom of Netherfield Hall.

Lizzy took a seat in a quiet corner of the hall, reading a random book that she had picked up at the airport on the way back from France and hadn’t got around to starting. It wasn’t holding her interest, and, in her mind, she blamed the awkward week in France with Carol and Hugh for being distracted and choosing something with a pretty cover and little substance. They had barely walked through the door of the villa when Carol announced rather bluntly that they were separating, with Hugh nodding quietly and confirming that it was true. For the sake of appearances, they were still planning on appearing together in public until the divorce was finalised and for all Lizzy could tell the split was amicable on both sides. The week had passed with strained conversations and awkward outings as they performed a well-rehearsed charade in public. Although Lizzy didn’t especially like Carol as a person, she was always sad when marriages ended. They had been together for a long time now, their lives so entwined with each other’s that it was sad to think that they wouldn’t be there together any more and now when she picked up the floppy paperback with the pink cover, all she could see was her father’s brown eyes sadly smiling at her over breakfast on the terrace.  

 

Harriet was part of the Netherfield Ball scenes too and had been on the train every weekend to the dance studio in London to practice the three labour-intensive dances with the rest of the cast. She was wearing a beautiful emerald green dress in a shiny taffeta and her hair was pinned and wrapped under a befeathered turban. College had started well and she was making the most of the October half term to question the seamstresses and costume team about all aspects of their work; Harriet had chosen an eclectic mix of A-Levels – Textiles, Photography and History – she wasn’t sure how they would fit into her future but she chose things that she liked and was sure that life would mould itself around them.

Lizzy noticed her daughter sitting with Sam, the Third AD who she had known forever, chatting to him animatedly and laughing at everything he said, but she tried not to notice when Benn Williams walked on set; although she inadvertently felt her heart flip. She tried to remember exactly what she had said to him on the rooftop, but all she could remember was how embarrassed she had felt afterwards as she had practically shoved him into his car without even saying goodbye. She glanced over; he was already fully costumed in one of the early, stiff Darcy outfits; his curls tousled to perfection and his cravat devilishly high. They had been very specific about the colours of costuming Darcy and the Bingleys at the Ball and a lot of the dresses had been modelled on the gowns of Elizabeth and Georgiana Darcy which had been found up in the attic and been on display at the V&A – Harriet had been fascinated by it and explained it in great length whilst Lizzy listened half-heartedly, distracted by work papers and Debs’ relationship drama. Casually she looked up at him and caught him looking at her; he blinked slowly and then looked away, turning his attention to the woman with bright red hair who was standing next to him. Lizzy felt a prickle of anxiety sweep down her body, manifesting itself on her arm in goosebumps. She got up, slipped on her jacket and walked out to the courtyard.

Benn hadn’t expected to see Lizzy at the shoot, didn’t understand why when he walked on set she was sitting there reading a book and dressed in full regency regalia – the blue brought out the colour of her eyes and he couldn’t help but notice her boobs, even though he would never admit to it. He had spent the last six weeks at Shepperton throwing himself into sorting out his life; he had joined AA, visiting a small meeting in Ealing each week, the divorce was being finalised within the next week or two and he had reached out to Madeleine in a polite and civil manner. They had spoken in length about the ending of their marriage and how they needed to do what was best for their girls. Benn knew that he would always love her; she was the mother of his children and would always play a part in his life, but he had come to realise that for the last few years they had been rattling around as little more than housemates, always on location or distracted by work. It was not how he had wanted to end his relationship, but he was optimistic for the future, whatever it held.

He had hoped that the weeks at Shepperton would have meant a message or a phone call from Lizzy, but there had been nothing. He was worried that he had come on too strong; practically telling her that he was in love with her on a rooftop whilst looking at the stars was like something out of one of the cheesy romantic comedies he was sent scripts for, but she was wrong thinking that it wasn’t real. He had meant every word, but maybe she simply didn’t feel like that about him. She was nice to everyone, except Matthew, maybe he had misconstrued the situation. Under the lights he noticed that his cravat was a little too tight, excusing himself he walked out to the courtyard.

Lizzy was sitting hidden in the cloisters underneath the archway to the garden when she saw Benn appear from the house and walk slowly down the stone steps, resting for moment on the iron railings. There were members of the production team running about here and there, extras and dancers moving from make-up and costume, runners shimmying people along from one area to another, but all she could see in the crowd of people was Benn. He walked over to the well in the centre of the courtyard before turning and seeing her hiding near the kiosk for the garden. Purposefully but silently, he strode over in his dancing pumps before taking the seat next to her.

“Nice hair,” he said, smirking at her chiffon’ed and pinned head.

“Nice tights,” she responded dryly. “Borrow them from your nan, did you?”

There was a silence between them, filled with the noise from the sound system playing Mozart, walkie-talkies hissing and fuzzing loudly and the general kafuffle of people organising themselves.

“I missed you,” he murmured, turning to look at her. She blinked up at him, before turning away.

“I missed your cheesecake making skills; I’ve had to resort to buying fully constructed ones from M&S,” she smiled up at him, remembering the night when they didn’t make cheesecake after supper. “I missed you.”

Benn’s heart gave a little stir, started beating faster and he was suddenly very aware of the heat rising to his face. He was going to play this cool, he had already decided. He wasn’t going to go in all guns blazing and make declarations of affection. After being told off quite severely he had read Pride and Prejudice, borrowing a battered old copy from Lucy, and it was clear that the direct and forceful approach hadn’t worked well for Mr Darcy at all.

“Was it my dancing skills that you missed the most, because let me tell you, I am now phenomenally good at country house dancing. In fact, I’m convinced that when the Queen finds out that I am a shoo-in for a Knighthood…she might even want me to fill her dance card.”

“I am excited to see it,” she grinned. “My toes have just about recovered from your heavy-footed debauchery.”

There was a moment when the laughter faded into something slightly more serious, she felt her heart pounding in her chest.

 “Lizzy…” he said, gently taking her hand in his own. She looked up at him smiling, the lightning was crackling again and maybe that was where she was going wrong. He smiled back, looking in her eyes and finding them scared and nervous, as if she was convinced that he would have something bad to say. Lizzy confused these new sparks of happiness and anticipation with the piercing prods of nervous anxiety that she had experienced before whenever she had let someone get too close to her heart. She felt the warmth of his hand in her own as he wrapped his fingers through hers, entwining them together so that in the soft dusk of the evening she couldn’t tell where his ended and hers began. They sat there for a moment in companionable silence before Benn was discovered by the agitated production assistant with an ever-present frown that Lizzy found troubling and was whisked away.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!   
> SONG: Dress by Taylor Swift

Halfway through the first evening of filming Lizzy’s feet were sore from standing at the edges of the hall and pretending to make conversation with a lovely gentleman from Didsbury. During their real conversation between takes she discovered he was working as an extra due to retirement; his wife had insisted that he find something to do to fill his hours or she would kill him or divorce him, and he had found himself signing up for local projects to get stave off boredom. He advised her not to start eating any of the food or simply to take little morsels and pick at them, she followed his advice, however, Harriet didn’t and practically inhaled a slice of pork pie. However, she found herself having to take large bites of it each time a scene was taken from another angle. By the time the scene was complete, Harriet was convinced that she would not be eating pork pie ever again.

Matthew was concentrating on orchestrating his team – it was of the utmost importance that everyone did what they were supposed to do when they were supposed to do it or else the whole sequence of shots wouldn’t work. Casey’s script had followed the standard pattern and showed Elizabeth and Darcy verbally sparring with each other, as well as the Bennet family demonstrating their inferior social skills. The dance; the slow moving, intricate, classic formation was the way that he would showcase the physical manifestation of the attraction between Elizabeth and Darcy without having them sneak off halfway through and having sex in the gardens. For all its prim properness, he knew that the story was about two people who really fancied each other but who couldn’t admit it to themselves, let alone each other – especially not when the only contact they could have was at formal balls and assemblies where they were standing on a dancefloor like performing monkeys and being watched by anyone of any consequence.

He watched Tamsin from across the room, she was dancing with Sam Gallagher, who was playing Captain Denny, and he felt a small pang of jealousy as she laughed and teased him, pressing herself against his redcoat uniform and taking a whole host of selfies that would inevitably appear on her Instagram at some point that evening. She was so close to Lydia Bennet in temperament that she had practically cast herself in the role, even though he had her pencilled in for the more straight-laced Mary before the first round of casting. Looking at her now, all strapped into stays and corsetry, he couldn’t wait until they had finished for the day so that he could pull her out of it and feel the warmth of her skin under his own.

Benn was talking softly with Jenny Graves, as his Elizabeth they had built a great working relationship over the last few months, and she made him laugh with the random snapchats she sent him and the sense of humour that they shared over stupid things that happened on set. She even once provided him with a live commentary of one of his old nineties rom-coms, where he played the best friend to the leading lady, via Snapchat. It would have been annoying if it hadn’t filled a terrible void of loneliness and made him laugh rather than drink. Jenny secretly admitted to him once, after a long emotionally draining rehearsal of the Hunsford proposal scene, that she had a poster of him on the back of her door all through high school, that she was fairly convinced that he had been responsible for her sexual awakening even if he was old enough to be her dad.

Technically he knew that this was correct; she was playing true to the age of her character - twenty - whereas he was fourteen years older than twenty-eight-year-old Darcy would have been and would probably have been better cast as Mr Bennet. He felt guilty that he wasn’t cast in more age-appropriate roles, or with more age-appropriate actresses. Even the brilliant Mariella Jones, who had played his love interest in ‘Praise To The Skies’ and was the same age, was now reduced to playing mothers and ageing spinster aunts. His only hope was that when the film was finally screened that they photoshopped out his wrinkles and it didn’t look like ‘Elizabeth’ was kissing her Dad.

Lizzy was partnered with one of the officers, a lovely young whippersnapper called Rhys, who didn’t have any lines, but looked good in a uniform and had spent three weeks learning the dance. He looked nervous as the first bars of the song played, but easily found his pace and they bounded through the cotillion with the other three couples in their set. Laughing with Rhys, albeit silently, she noticed that Benn would quickly glance in her direction as he observed the dancing from the outskirts of the room with a glass of Ribena masquerading as port. Even though the music played intermittently, the main noise coming from the room was the soft shuffle and stomp of dancing shoes as they moved across the wooden floor. As they moved into Mr Beveridge’s Maggot, the dance which she had practised so hard with Benn, Lizzy was excited to see how well he had rehearsed and if his earlier boasting was warranted.

All standing in position, Rhys and Lizzy found themselves adjacent to Benn and Jenny for the start of the dance. Runners and crew were positioning markers and adjusting lighting, whilst the Steadicam operator would move throughout the dance with the couples as if he was part of it. Lizzy saw Rhys glance at Benn standing next to him, he looked at him with an awe and reverence that she hadn’t seen someone do before, but she imagined that this was, for the newly graduated drama student, of great importance.

As they stepped into the first movement, Lizzy watched as Benn and Jenny stepped together silently, moving together and then apart, then it was her turn to repeat the movement, with a gloved hand she felt his fingers around hers a little tighter than expected. As they moved apart again and back into the first position, she saw him look at her, his face saying nothing and his eyes saying everything, and she felt as if they were having an almost clandestine affair on the set of the movie

* * *

 

SC 28. NETHERFIELD. BALLROOM. EVENING. INT.

 

DARCY and ELIZABETH are dancing Mr Beveridge’s Maggot. The room is filled with people; eating, talking, laughing. A few observe the dance, which dominates the room. MRS BENNET and MRS PHILIPS are watching JANE and BINGLEY dance. 

 

                    ELIZABETH:

          It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy.

                    (Beat.)

          I’ve talked about the dance and now _you_ should make a remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.

                    DARCY:

         And _what_ would you have me say, Miss Elizabeth?

                    ELIZABETH:

         Well perhaps I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones.

                   (Beat.)  

         Or we could remain silent.

 

DARCY observes ELIZABETH for a moment as the dance continues. He dances with the other lady in the group, watching ELIZABETH.

 

                    DARCY:

     Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?

                    ELIZABETH:

     Sometimes.

               (Beat.)

    One must speak a little, you know.

               (Beat.)

   It would be odd for us to be entirely silent for half an hour together.

 

ELIZABETH watches as DARCY dances with the other lady in the group, before she repeats the movement with the gentleman as DARCY observes, scowling. This isn’t a dance, this is a duel.  

* * *

 

“Cut!” Matthew shouted from his director’s chair, and the shot was over from this angle. The dancers took a break as the scene was reset, Harriet wandered over to Lizzy with a bottle of water and an increasingly itchy head from the satin turban which, although it looked beautiful, was heavy and annoying.

“Mum,” she prodded.

“Ooh, thanks,” taking the water Lizzy took a moment to observe her daughter who looked beautiful, albeit annoyed, in the green gown which was sparkling under the fake candlelight softly lighting the hall.

“I’m absolutely roasting,” Harriet took a fan from her matching drawstring bag and began to waft herself. “I have never known the house to be this warm and it’s October!”

“I know what you mean! You can imagine though what it would have been like to have lived here when Darcy and Elizabeth did – no wonder they never mention the cold!”

Harriet looked up at the gilded plasterwork on the ceiling, the three tall columns painted to look like plaster and each containing the trunk of a tree from the estate, and the amazing chandelier in the centre of room – fully illuminated with fake candles and looking, quite accurately, like something out of a Hollywood production. Lizzy wondered if her daughter had become too complacent about her surroundings and their significance, not only to the family but historically; Harriet had lived at Pemberley all her life, but had only ever seen it as a tourist attraction not fully knowing the amount of work that it took to keep the house and over a thousands acres of the estate running and safe for the public. But tonight, they were taken back to 1814, and dancing at the Netherfield Ball in dresses that were copies of those worn by their direct ancestors. Whilst the irony of being called Elizabeth Darcy and living at Pemberley was not lost on Lizzy, she knew that sometimes it was actually a very special privilege indeed.

It was 10pm before filming was completed; amidst the hubbub and the noise of the cast of fifty all being defrocked and dewigged, their costumes and wigs placed in named boxes for the completion of filming tomorrow, Lizzy saw Benn standing at the doorway of the servant’s hall, wrapped up in his North Face jacket and a tartan scarf. She felt a little bubble of happiness burst in her stomach at the sight of his face, he looked over at her, surprised to see her dressed in her normal clothes, and made a quick gesture of his head. Giddy, she jumped up from the make-up chair, wrapped herself up in her coat and walked towards the door. Without drawing attention to it, he slipped his hand into hers. Holding on to each other tightly they disappeared into the crowd of people dispersing for the night.


	20. Chapter 20

“Where are we going?” She whispered as she followed him into the darkness.

Taking her hand in his gently he whispered, “stop being impatient.”

“I’m not being impatient, I’m cold!”

The tall, silver-haired man in the dark blue coat turned towards the honey blonde lady and took her hand, gently pulling her towards him.

“Well, we’re here now,” he murmured. “Let me warm you up.”

He pulled her in for a kiss, softly at first and then firmer, with more potency. She let him wrap his arms around her, feeling the same tingles from when he had first kissed her that night on the rooftop of the Wyatt tower, when the stars had burned in the sky and they had given in to their summer-long flirtation. Joyce knew that she might get burned by Hugh this time, but at least she would have tried, at least she would have known that the electric she felt years ago was justified. Back then she knew that it could never have worked – there were bigger expectations of him, the heir to Pemberley needed to marry a society heiress with a private school education and a trust fund or a title, and she had none of those. She had left the house at the end of the season, without explanation and without regret.

“Are you warmer now?” He pushed her fringe away from her face so that he could see her blues eyes in the moonlight.  

“Yes,” she smiled up at him. For the first time in a long time, Joyce felt like she was home, as if she had found her missing jigsaw piece. She placed her hand on his cheek, running her thumb along his cheekbone. “You look the same.”

A small smile caused his cheeks to dimple and she was taken immediately back to the hot July afternoon when, hot and sweating, he had recklessly dived into the pond and then pulled her in after him.

“Shall we go inside so you can perhaps see me without the flattering glow of the moonlight?”

They were standing outside of a lone cottage on the furthest reaches of the estate, below them the city of Manchester twinkled in the distance. Inside Paddock Cottage, the fire was already burning, the comforting smell of pine alight infused the room and the humble stone interior was gently lit with candles.

“As House Manager I should tell you off severely for leaving candles burning unattended, you are at serious risk of damaging the property of the Historical House Society,” she said with mock consternation.

He looked at her earnestly, looking like the boy she had admired so much, “do you like it?”

Joyce felt the prick of happy tears behind her eyes, but she pushed them back to smile at him with her whole face. “You brought me to the cottage.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Do you remember?”

“I do,” she whispered. “I thought you had forgotten.”

He took a tentative step towards her, “I never forgot.”

“Me neither.”

“When I came back from Cambridge, you were gone. I thought I had done something wrong, that you despised me after what we did on the rooftop,” he looked down and started to fidget with his signet ring.

“No,” she whispered. “I was scared.”

“Scared?”

“You were the heir to Pemberley, and I was scared that the more time we spent together the more in love with you I would have been. You needed to marry someone not like me”

He smiled sadly, “I think I would have done a better job of matrimony if I had married someone like you.”

“You know what I mean, Hughie,” she murmured. “You had to marry the right type of woman.”

“I did,” he said firmly. “Once anyway… But both of them divorced me.” There was a sadness in his voice that he could not disguise. It felt, to Hugh, that the failure of his marriages lay solely at his feet, even though he had not done anything wrong. Patricia fell out of love with him the moment a better offer came along, whereas Carol appeared to have woken up one morning and decided that she detested him. He had tried to make it work with her, tried so hard, but there is only so long you can fight for something that doesn’t want to be won.

“There is no shame is walking away from something that isn’t right.”

He looked up at her, and then he knew.

“No,” he whispered. “It was because it was always you.”

He looked at her and she could not have failed to have understood his meaning. Overcome by a sudden rush of love, Joyce threw herself into Hugh’s arms, hugging him so tightly that she came to think that if she let go she would fall to the earth. He held her close to his chest, feeling the thump of her heart against his own, before kissing her until the candles burned out.

* * *

 

Benn wrapped his arm around Lizzy’s shoulder as he proudly walked with her towards the north front entrance of Pemberley, she looked up at him and grinned, and he had grinned back. The touch of her gloved hand on the dancefloor had sent sparks through him and although he managed to concentrate on the job in hand, he was nervous with anticipation. It was more than a sexual attraction though; as much as he wanted to kiss every inch of her body, wanted to feel her against him, he also wanted to make her laugh, wanted to make her frown so he could stroke the little crinkle on her brow.

“Where are we going?” She questioned as she put her hand underneath his jacket and stroked the base of his back.

“Where do you want to go?”

Grabbing his hand, she took him through the staff entrance gate at the top of the rose garden, punching in the passcode with her mittened hand. She took him towards the pergola, which was illuminated by the moonlight of the chilly October night.

“Have you brought me here to prove a point?”

Lizzy looked up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“This is where you told me off, where we ate cake.”

She smiled as she remembered the day in summer. “Oh yes,” she said surprised “How did you remember that?”

“You were wearing shoes with bees on them,” with a serious face now. “And you wiggled past me when you walked as if you were daring me to follow you.”

She laughed as she recalled the day, “I was daring you and I was so glad I had those shoes on because I wanted to strut past you for being so rude. Hateful man!”

He sat on the bench and took both of her hands in his own, “I apologise for my most un-gentleman-like manner.” Pulling her towards him, his head was at chest height and she hugged him tightly against her as he put his arms around her waist. “Lizzy, you must know how I feel about you.”

She bit her lip and nodded silently, “I do.”

He leaned up and kissed her on the cheek, repeating, softly, gently, like butterfly kisses all over her face, each one sending a tingle down her body; he pressed on faster, firmer, kissing the soft spot behind her ear, the nape of her neck, before she couldn’t wait any longer and put her hands on his face, she looked into his eyes and then he kissed her deeply and without any restraint. Lizzy had never been kissed like this before, it was almost reverential, and each touch made her body radiate an invisible glow. They kissed until kissing was no-longer enough and the air became too cold. As they made their way up to the flat in the tower, laughing and giggling and kissing, Lizzy was met with a tearful, red faced Harriet.

“Harriet,” she rushed over to her and put her arm around her shoulder “What’s the matter?”

“They’ve been trying to call you… They’ve been trying to call anyone, but no-one was answering the phone.”

Lizzy led Harriet over to the couch, covering her with the tartan blanket from the back; Benn unsure what to do did what he thought was best and put the kettle on.

“Calm down, what’s happened, who has been phoning?”

“The hospital,” she said before bursting into tears. “They think Imogen might die.”

“What?” Lizzy went immediately ashen-faced, “has there been an accident?”

“They think she took some pills, they don’t know, but no-one was answering the phone and I’ve been waiting for you to get back.”

Lizzy hugged Harriet tightly, “I’m so sorry” Benn handed her a cup of hot, sweet tea and sat down on the chair next to the two Darcy women.

“Mum, you need to go to London now… There needs to be someone there in case she-” Harriet was overwhelmed with tears and unable to finish the sentence.

Lizzy looked at Benn, he didn’t know what to do or what to say, but he wrapped his arms around them both before trying to take command of the situation. “I’ll drive you down there now, I have my car.”

“No,” she grabbed her car keys and bag. “You have a film to finish and you need sleep. Matthew will go mad if this film runs over budget…” She began to walk to the door and he followed.

 In hushed tones he murmured, “this film isn’t important, Lizzy. You are important, please let me do this.”

“This film is important – hundreds of people have worked for nearly a year on it and you cannot let them down, I will not let you. Don’t be silly.”

“Don’t call me silly, let me do this for you,” he said resolutely.

“Benn, if you could look after Harriet for me, and when my father comes back, please let him know what has happened and where I am.”

She looked him firmly in the eye; he knew Elizabeth Darcy well enough to know that once she had made up her mind that she was determined, and nothing would be able to change it. He reluctantly nodded in agreement, “okay.”

“Harriet, please try and get some sleep. I will let you know when I get there. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Harriet said into her mum’s coat as she hugged her. Lizzy kissed her daughter on the forehead, before taking the details from the pad on the coffee table.

Benn followed her to her car, holding her tightly against the cold. “Let me know if I can do anything else, my assistant is in London, she can arrange anything you want.”

“I’ll be fine,” she smiled sadly. “Thank you for tonight.”

He kissed her softly on the lips, “thank _you_. I know your sister will be okay.”

Lizzy nodded silently, sadly, before pulling him in for another hug. As she closed the door, he could see the tears in her eyes and the worry etched across her face and more than anything he wanted to drive her there, to hold her and comfort her and be there for her when she needed him. He watched until the car disappeared and quietly prayed for a miracle as he walked the Pemberley staircases up to the tower.


	21. Chapter 21

Born in the dying embers of the industrial fire of the nineteenth century, Millicent Darcy was the youngest child of Edward and Cecily – he was the second son, who survived the boating accident that killed his brother, whilst she was the rich, American heiress of a railroad magnate, who had been sent over to England to marry a Duke with an ancient lineage, which she did. Having already provided themselves with an heir, George, and then a spare, Albert, two years later, the Darcys had not expected to become the parents of a girl. She was placed in the care of a succession of nannies and then squirrelled away in the schoolroom with her governess, Miss Evesham, who schooled her in music, literature and, secretly, on the suffragist movement of which she was a big supporter. As she got older, Millicent moved along the nursery corridor to the small bedroom at the end of the long gallery, with the crooked fireplace and uneven floorboards that creaked whenever she stepped too heavily. She badly stitched drapes for the centuries old bed with the dark wood and ominous figures carved into it; she knew that it had been made for a visit by Anne Boleyn, but the only Queen who had ever slept in it was Mary of Scots whilst she was a prisoner of the crown. It made her sad to think of Mary lying in the bed, looking up at the morbid carvings, knowing that the people who were meant to be her hosts were secretly looking for ways to implicate her in treason. Yet more women, she thought, whose position was defined by the men they married; even Queen Elizabeth depended on her male advisors and, despite ruling for sixty-four years, Millicent was convinced that the recently-deceased Victoria would only be remembered for her extreme grief and excessive waistline. At eighteen, she came out in society and was presented to the King who, even though he preferred a more curvaceous lady, viewed the tall, willowy girl with a lustful gaze. With her mother’s exotic looks and her father’s fortune, Lady Millicent Mary Darcy soon became one of the most eligible debutantes in London and was courted by several young gentlemen, none of whom caught her eye or her heart, because she had already decided that she would never marry, would never sacrifice her name and her identity to become the possession of another, not even someone whom she truly loved.

Edward Darcy, the mild-mannered Duke of Derbyshire, was reading his newspaper in the gentlemen’s club on St James’s Street when he heard that his daughter had been arrested for setting fire to a postbox in the name of Women’s Suffrage. This was the second time that he had been summoned to the police station to bail her out and it was becoming tiresome. Despite this he was, despite his wife’s disgust, secretly proud of Millicent’s newfound infamy as one of the younger leaders of the suffragette movement in the north, along with the Pankhurst’s, whom he had secretly funded with anonymous donations. He wasn’t surprised, however, to find that instead of bailing out his daughter, he was faced with a working-class girl with red hair and a smattering of freckles who smiled up at him as she was released. Millicent would often switch identities with the poorer girls, knowing that her fate – as a member of the aristocracy – granted her a leniency not usually granted to women of a lower status. It would be three weeks before she was released, furious and hardened by the struggle and force-feedings, into the custody of her father who took her back to Pemberley for recuperation and fresh air.

“We are fighting for revolution!” the younger woman screamed at her Mother across the dining table, “why can you not understand that this is for all women, it’s for you too!”

Cecily deep-sighed and continued with her onion soup; she looked over at her husband and rolled her eyes. Edward, failing to notice the cue, took a mouthful of the meal before being verbally accosted by his daughter.

“And you, Father, do you not think that it is ridiculous that women do not have any right or any say over what they do? A woman is her father’s possession until she marries and then she is the property of her husband. What if she never marries…who does she belong to then? Does she finally belong to herself or does she get entailed away?”

“Erm,” he stammered. “I’m not sure, Milly -”

“Well you should know!” Deflated, she sat down on her chair and calmly began to eat her soup. Edward shot a knowing glance at his wife, who deep-sighed and took a large mouthful of wine. She didn’t know what she had done in a previous life to deserve such a boisterous and argumentative child and wished, most fervently, that Millicent would start to behave like the Lady she was, rather than running up and down the country causing havoc with this group of trouble-making women. Cecily hoped that it would all stop soon, the thought of it all gave her a headache.  

 

 

Rupert Fitzwilliam always adored Millicent. From childhood they had played together in the grounds at Pemberley, hiding in the Killtime ravine with the gardeners as Cecily demanded fresh flowers for her parties, or sneaking onto the top landing and looking down on the fancy ladies and handsome gentlemen getting drunk in the saloon. It was a blissful era and every time Rupert returned to the big old house in Derbyshire, he fell a little bit more in love with his second cousin, who didn’t care about fighting him on the lawn or falling about in the lake, splashing him in the sweltering heat of the summer sun, despite her mother’s yells that it was decidedly unladylike. She taught him how to fire a shotgun, already knowing better than the boy who permanently lived in London where to aim and what to shoot. When she was twenty-one and he was newly graduated from Oxford, they attended one of the Duchess’s house parties as invited guests and ended up bored by the tiresome conversation and restrained dancing, although they did enjoy the copious amounts of alcohol. Falling about laughing sitting on the top step of the staircase, they continued drinking their stealthily procured champagne from the stirrup glasses that Rupert had given her for her birthday. The house was alive with music and laughter, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes filling the house with an aroma that Millicent found comforting. She leaned over and put her arm around his shoulder, teasing the combed and waxed hair at the nape of his neck into an unruly twirl. He was so close now that she could smell the hint of his cologne, it smelled like leather and cognac. She had never noticed before how green his eyes were, or how his moustache curled at the ends, she caught him looking at her in the same way, as if he had never seen her before – people always look so different when you are inches away from them, your body tingling with anticipation and each breath taking a lifetime. Rupert tentatively leaned towards her and she moved back, primarily out of fear, sensing this he traced his fingertips over the back of her hand, causing goosebumps to race up her arm. Slowly and with a great trepidation, he ran the flat of his palm up her arm and to her shoulder, as she watched still and silent, unsure what he would do next. His fingers continued their slow journey up to her face and as he placed his hand on the back of her neck and brought her mouth slowly to his own Millicent thought that she might explode with the myriad of sensations enveloping her. She knew at that moment that she had always been in love with Rupert Fitzwilliam; emboldened by a brazen disregard for society’s rules and social etiquette, she took his hand and they walked the short journey to her room, where he proclaimed he loved her under the badly embroidered sheets, whilst kissing every inch of her body.

 

 

Pemberley lost more than most great houses during the War to End All Wars. The younger male servants were the first to leave, parading to Lambton in their smart khaki uniforms, after photographs were taken on the courtyard steps of the Pemberley Pals; twenty three footmen, under-butlers, gardeners, stable hands and the middle Darcy child, Albert, had signed up to fight the Hun. Only two of them would return. Later, as the war continued longer than the world anticipated, more of the estate workers were conscripted, including George who although scared about what was before was determined to do his duty for King and country. Even Officers could be casualties of war, and the eldest Darcy boy would lose his life in the Battle of the Somme alongside his cousin, Rupert, who fought bravely to save a fallen comrade before taking a bullet to the head. He had died instantly. In his possession was an addressed envelope containing a small seed pearl on a silver band.

The buff-coloured telegram that arrived in the car of an important war official caused Cecily Darcy to scream and fall into a hysterical fit in the entrance hall of the great house. The gentleman called for help, but nothing that anyone could say or do prevented the manic sobs that fell from the Duchess of Derbyshire’s face. Edward retreated to his study, to drink through his grief, leaving his daughter to comfort her mother, something that proved impossible to do. Cecily Darcy went to her rooms and did not come out of them for three months; when she did she was a husk of a woman, living in her heartache until she gave up on life a month before the end of the war. Albert Darcy returned at that start of 1919, but he wasn’t the same as he was before. The sights and sounds he had seen had permanently scarred him and even music and laughter caused his heart to race and his body to shake with fear. He disappeared into the woods one freezing cold night, searches were fruitless until Albert was found dead three days later by Peter, the private who had served with him on the front, the last surviving Pemberley Pal.

 

 

Millicent Darcy had never expected to be the unofficial heir to Pemberley and she had certainly never wanted it under such horrific circumstances. Most of the house was now closed and shuttered, with cloths covering the fine furniture and as she viewed her family home from her sanctuary in the folly at Lantern Wood, she thought that Pemberley looked as if it was falling asleep, drifting away into history; with few staff and her father drinking himself half to death, Millicent knew that it fell on her to try and fix things as best she could. As the world moved into the twenties, she sold the house on Grosvenor Square to an American hotel magnate who remembered her mother with fondness, she negotiated a deal that allowed the family to maintain a residence in the hotel in perpetuity once it was completed. Furniture from the house was auctioned off, with people from across the world eager to own a piece of Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, even if the pieces they bought were refurbished, reupholstered fragments of what was once there. She always found the story fascinating and despite not caring for the tale, she retained a portrait of Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy in a yellow dress painted a few months after her wedding, it held a special place in her heart and she hung it in her bedroom at Pemberley where it provided a comforting presence.

Edward Darcy never knew how his daughter had managed to keep her son a secret for so long, but he was pleased to meet the young boy who stood before him. He was five years old and had the light colouring of his mother and the furrowed brow of the Darcy men; he was clever too – reading aloud from Moby Dick and playing a recognisable tune on the pianoforte. Edward Darcy never asked Millicent who Winston’s father was, but he had his suspicions and was sad for her loss – that she had not received the recognition of her grief, or the badge of sympathy worn by widows of the war. He made plans to contact his attorney in Lambton, Edward was going to legitimise his grandson and provide Pemberley with an heir. Women might have won the vote, but they still couldn’t inherit a dukedom and he was determined to keep it within the Darcy family and at Pemberley.

 

 

Imogen Penny Darcy had hair the colour of wheat and eyes as blue as the July sky she was born under, she was of such a pleasant temperament that she delighted everyone she met – she would dance across the state rooms at Pemberley during the Duke’s Christmas visit, her little voice singing a song by Elton John as she twirled next to the ten foot tall Christmas tree as her mother watched proudly and various members of staff clapped and took photos of Lady Isobel beaming widely and curtseying on their disposable cameras. As she grew older, family members commented on how much she looked like her great-grandma Millicent; Imogen, who had only ever seen the faded black and white pictures of a grumpy old lady dressed in buttoned down jackets and starched hats, was immediately offended by this until her sister Lizzy took her to see the portrait everyone was referring to. Imogen, only just eleven and a gangly, tall, girl, could not see how she even resembled the magnificent creature in the portrait before her. Painted when Millicent had been in her late twenties and done by a respected society artist, Imogen could not see how her own lip pouted in the same way – the gentle crease of the cupids bow on her top lip – her hands, long and tapered were almost the same, she could see that, but it was only when she squinted her eyes and tilted her head that she saw a face that resembled her own. It was the eyes, she thought. Most of the Darcys had slate grey eyes, which could be cold and dull, but Imogen had eyes like sapphires that sparkled even when she was sad, and everyone commented on how she was the least Darcy-like of all of Winston’s grandchildren.

“Can you see it now, Imo?” Lizzy asked softly, as the two Darcy girls sat on the carpet in front of the painting, blocking the pathway for any paying guests.

“Yes,” she nodded, still transfixed by the image of the Lady Darcy dressed in soft blue satin and posing against a table.

“Here,” Lizzy handed her sister a small soft blue velvet box. “This is for you, I thought you would like it.”

Imogen opened it to find inside a seed pearl ring, it was small and delicate and fit her perfectly.

“Look at the picture,” Lizzy smiled, watching her younger sister recognise that the ring on her own finger was the same one gracing the hand of her great-grandmother in the ninety year-old oil painting.  Imogen grinned and hugged her sister tightly, maybe she was more Darcy than everyone thought.

 

Lizzy sat by her sister’s bedside in the private room of the Chelsea and Westminster hospital. It had been early morning when she had reached London, dumping her car in the car park as she had no change and not caring what the cost or fines would be. She felt guilt, so much guilt for not talking to her sister as much, for not making the effort. It had been easy to watch Imogen go off the rails, especially when she seemed to have so much fun doing it, but now as she looked at the pale face of the young girl, she knew that she needed to take care of her, to make this right. Her hair was a ratty bleached blonde and even though her face had been cleaned, traces of eyeliner remained in the corner of her eyes. There was a tattoo of a bee on her wrist, which was new. Lizzy found herself studying Imogen as she waited for any sign of movement, any sign of normalcy that would signal to her that this was all going to be okay, but she had been there for nearly twelve hours now and there had been no change.

Imogen was in a white room, she felt weightless and free. Ahead of her was a bright light, but there was a noise behind her. It sounded like music, a tune that she could recognise but couldn’t quite remember… there was the faint sound of piano keys being hit and she followed it, as she did the room became grey, became black and there was darkness. She could hear the words, could hear them ever so softly… ‘Lying here with no one near…’ They became louder now – ‘Only you and you can hear me…’ She recognised the voice, it was the soft northern voice that she loved – ‘when I say softly, slowly…’ As she fell into the voice, there was a rush of weight and heaviness and she coughed loudly, choking now, struggling, couldn’t breathe, noises, voices, beeps, shouts, light, alive, sounds, smells, air, breath, gasp. Tiny Dancer.

Imogen woke up.


	22. Chapter 22

Lizzy had been in London for forty-eight hours, living out of her bag and eating food snaffled from the tea trolley or ice-cold sandwiches from the vending machine on the third floor. The afternoon after Imogen woke up, Hugh had relieved his eldest daughter from her vigil and she had journeyed over to the flat on Upper Grosvenor Street which had, at one time, been part of the house owned by Jane Bingley’s sister in law, Mrs Hurst. Carol Darcy, once so proud of her London pied-de-terre, had wasted no time in removing the most valuable pieces of art and furniture and the result was an empty shell of a house, filled with spaces where the pieces that made it a home once stood. Joe, nearly eighteen, was still boarding at Eton – his free time full of ski trips to Courchevel with his friends, or golfing at St Andrews - and so had luckily missed out on the drama of his parents’ divorce. Lizzy walked around the house with sadness; although she hadn’t had the best relationship with her stepmother, she always enjoyed her time here – especially at Christmas, when they would ship in their elaborate meal from Fortnum and Mason, ending with a massive flaming Christmas pudding and custard. Later Hugh, Lizzy, Imogen, Joe and Harriet would spend the afternoon watching Morecambe & Wise whilst Carol and Aunty Julia got drunk off the rest of the brandy that had been destined for the dessert.

The afternoon had been spent making phonecalls to work – asking Deb to reschedule her diary and send out the final drafts of documents that were on her desk; contacting Matthew, making sure that Harriet was suitably supervised. Harriet was remarkably resilient and, after the initial shock of what had happened, had dealt with things admirably. She was staying with her Dad at the Alveston Arms in Lambton and enjoying the last few days of the half term, although missing her mum as could be understood. Benn had sent messages as often as the shooting schedule allowed and her phone pinged with random cat pictures and videos, or stupid selfies of him at Pemberley, which he thought would cheer her up. He had been right, they had, and in the first few days when everything was unclear, she had messaged him back with words of appreciation, pouring out her heart over the mobile network.

On the seventh day, there had been a parcel for her waiting with Malcolm, the friendly faced concierge at the flat –  it had obviously been hand wrapped and contained a box of those hideously expensive macarons she loved, a soft grey cashmere cardigan and a little enamel brooch of a bee, which she immediately adored. She had smiled as she had read the card and later, when the consultant was speaking to Imogen and her dad, she stood in the hospital corridor and phoned him to say thank you. He had sounded concerned on the phone, told her how much he wanted to be there to support her and make sure she was alright. She told him she was okay, and that hugs were most definitely required. He laughed softly, before agreeing that he would have happily acquiesced to her request. It was his last day on set, but he was flying straight out to the US on the redeye flight to screentest for a big budget action film with a famous director who had specifically asked for him. She was so excited for him; texting over a list of American sweets that he needed to bring her back. He was there for a fortnight, but they arranged to meet in London the day his flight landed.

“Will you be standing at the gate waiting for me with a sign?” He said it jokingly, but seriously would have loved for her to be standing there with her Bee shoes and mischievous smile.

“Only if you promise not to judge my terrible sign-making skills and poor lettering!”

“Of course not, as long as you’re naked I won’t have any issue with your bubble writing. I have to warn you though, Miss Lizzy,” he said with mock sternness, “I will be removing my sideburns.”

“Oh, no!!” She laughed for the first time in a week, “I might have to rethink this whole thing.”

He had laughed too and then in a low growl said, “you had better not, you cannot even begin to imagine the things I want to do to you.”

She had felt herself blush and was glad that he was two hundred miles away, so he couldn’t see her face turn pink. “Surely it all depends on the effects of the sideburn removal on whether or not I permit you to do such things,” she teased him, matching his low voice with one of her own.

“My god, woman, you sound like the Cadbury’s Caramel bunny when you do that… Do you even know what you are doing to me right now?”

“I could tell you what I want to do to you,” she murmured, hiding her face from the nurses rushing past her, “but I don’t think it would be appropriate preparation for the scene, do you?”

Benn was standing alone in the porch at Pemberley, the only place where he could get reception, wrapped up against the cold and licking a lolly, which had replaced his previously ever-present e-cig.  “Probably not – it’s the scene with Jemima and the piano.”

“Lady Catherine!” she squealed with excitement.

Lizzy had been so pleased with she had heard that one of her favourite actresses, Jemima Lancaster, was playing the part of Lady Catherine De Bourgh and had made him watch three of her favourite films back to back one evening in the summer.

“Yes,” he sighed. “I know you are a bit devastated about not getting to meet her.”

“Please will you get her autograph for me?”

“Are you serious?” “Yes!”

He sighed again, this time louder, “okay. For you, and you alone, I will go up to a woman I am working with and ask for an autograph. Not cool, Darcy, not cool.”

She giggled down the phone, “thank you so much… I will make it worth your while.”

“You better had…”

The frowning runner came toddling towards him and he knew that his time was up, “look I have to go, but I will call you before the flight, okay?”

“Okay,” she smiled. “Break a leg!”

“Love you,” she heard him say. She guessed he had said it inadvertently, distracted by the noise and kerfuffle of filming.

 

Later, as she sat in the uncomfortable chair in the stiflingly hot room, watching dreadful television with her dad and sister, pulling on her t-shirt that was clinging and making her feel self-conscious, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.

BENN: At Heathrow now, getting zoomed through the gate to First Class (veh posh, eh?) as traffic awful on the M25 and late. Will let you know when I land – don’t worry, I remembered your list. Can’t promise to buy Twinkies. xx

BENN: Couldn’t get an autograph – thought this would be better?

There was a video attached and she opened it, it started playing immediately.

“So, I would like you to meet Lady Elizabeth Darcy – she couldn’t be here today, but she will be on the other end of this message,” Benn boomed out in his Mr Darcy voice, which was grander and deeper than his own.

The screen panned around, and Jemima Lancaster appeared perfectly costumed as Lady Catherine De Bourgh. She spoke in the way that Lizzy always imagined the great lady spoke when reading the letters sent between Darcy and Elizabeth documenting their various encounters with her.

“Lady Elizabeth,” she said in a perfectly condescending tone, “if one is to believe what one has been told you have asked my nephew, Fitzwilliam, to procure my signature for what I can only assume is some dreadful reason only enjoyed by ladies of lower social standing. One will not tolerate such behaviour from such an unfeeling, selfish girl!”

“I’m afraid, Lady Elizabeth, that my aunt is quite determined!”

He looked up at Jemima who was now smiling, all traces of Lady Catherine removed from her face.

“Hello Lizzy, wish you could have been here… I was so looking forward to your behind the scenes tour! I’m in a play in Huddersfield in March, so I will come and visit and you will have to show me around then! Mwah!”

Jemima Lancaster waved and blew kisses at the camera, until it flashed back to Benn who gave her a thumbs up before waving.

BENN: Well, you said you would make it worth my while… :D xx

Lizzy’s heart gave a little flip as she placed the phone back in her pocket.

“Everything alright, Lizard?” Hugh asked, looking at his eldest daughter who looked as if she had fallen asleep with a coathanger in her mouth.

“Yes,” she said in a small, happy voice.

“Sure?” He nodded.

“Yes,” she grinned. “Quite sure.”

 

Imogen never quite remembered the journey to Derbyshire taking as long as it did today. They were in her father’s Range Rover and not the hideous little yellow car that Lizzy always drove, and she struggled to keep her eyes open as they skirted off the M25 towards the north. Even when they stopped at the services at Newport Pagnell, she only requested a coffee, which remained undrunk and resting in the cupholder. Her sister was sitting in the front, talking to their dad in quietened tones, occasionally leaning over her shoulder and looking at her with a look of concern that she found slightly comforting. She was being taken to Pemberley for the next six weeks to recover – well, that was what they said, it felt more like she was being exiled to the countryside to pay penance for her sins. Out of the window of the car, the world got hillier and she only woke again when they juddered over the cattlegrid and crossed the bridge over the railway line that Fitzwilliam Darcy paid for. As they pulled up to the north front gate, given special leave by Don to do so, she was bundled out of the car and up the backstairs to the small flat at the top of the house, where she would live with her sister and her niece until she was better. ‘Better’ – what a strange concept, she thought, lying on the bed in Lizzy’s spare room, which had been hastily made up for her. She couldn’t explain to anyone why she had done what she did, didn’t even want to talk about it in case it brought back those feelings of loneliness and despair. Imogen was not quite twenty, but she felt as if she had led so many lives now that she wasn’t sure who she was anymore, but she knew that it had been the voice of her sister that had reminded her that life wasn’t quite done with her yet and she was curious to see what fate had in store. She wandered downstairs and plonked herself on the squishy sofa, covering herself with large blanket and scrolling through the barrage of crap that the showbiz columns pushed through to her email inbox on her phone whilst waiting for Lizzy who was in the kitchen making a pot of tea.

“Hey Lizard, isn’t this that guy you know?”

Lizzy walked over to the table and placed a tray with biscuits and a teapot onto the low coffee table, she glanced over at the phone.

“Which guy?”

Imogen zoomed the screen in and practically thrust the phone into her sister’s face. On the screen, wearing a blue shirt and looking movie-star polished was Benn, she did a little smile that Imogen immediately recognised. Lizzy grabbed the phone and quickly read the article.

_Beautiful Brit Benn Williams, 42, in town for talks with Tony Bennedetto cuddles up to latest squeeze, Rosie Schaffer, 27. Spotted on the Santa Monica Pier and out for lunch at Chateau Marmont, this gorgeous pair have been stepping out all over the LA since his arrival a fortnight ago._

Lizzy felt the weight drop to her stomach straight away, the prickles of betrayal running up her spine, she sat down and took a mouthful of tea, feeling it fall into the emptiness inside her.

“Lizzy, whatever is the matter?” Imogen’s face was the picture of concern, and she leaned over and put an arm around her, pulling her close. Lizzy felt the close warmth of her sister and she knew that, whatever was going on with this, she couldn’t let it impede Imogen getting better.

She smiled with a fake brightness that she suspected might fool her sister, “I didn’t really know him, I met him a few times though when he was filming here. I’m okay. Do you fancy putting a film on?” Lizzy took another mouthful of tea even though the taste of it in her mouth make her feel nauseous.

“Yeah, alright,” Imogen nodded, knowing full well that if she listened closely enough, she could hear her sister’s heart shattering.


	23. Chapter 23

Lady Sophia Clarendon-Darcy sat in the corner of the Stag Parlour, the fire was raging in the large hearth and filling the room with an overpowering heat. Seething with anger, she tapped her foot on the edge of the window seat in the corner of the room where she had been placed to prevent her causing trouble; at the table her brother Cyril, her father George and the Cheshire Gentlemen, a small group of local landowners loyal to the former King James II, were gathered amidst smoke and ale, discussing their plan to restore the deposed Monarch to the throne in loud, bellowing voices which belied the secrecy of their very treasonous plotting. Sophia, mother of two Royal bastards, was a key part of this plan – indeed it was her very own idea to force action on behalf of the rightful King and legitimise her own children as his successors. Edmund and Henry, strong healthy boys, resided in the country – too precious to be kept close to the park at Pemberley, or even at her house in town. Even though they had been officially recognised as sons of the King, being awarded the name Fitzroy and the titles of Earls of Bentinck and Struthers, their position under the rule of William of Orange was tenuous, especially given his wife’s own inability to provide the country with a Protestant heir. The Darcys themselves were staunch Royalists, and this most recent of developments had caused problems.

Sophia understood the risks that were being taken on behalf of her children, understood that any hint of conspiracy or intrigue could result in the children simply disappearing. She sat in the corner, the glittering Darcy Pearls pendant that had once belonged to her mother sparkling at her neck and her grey eyes incandescent with rage. She was listening to these silly men prattle on about their plans to raise armies, about their plans to smuggle the King into the country and march down to London to reclaim the throne. It was all so foolish. If they were going to be successful then they would have to be a little be cleverer with their plotting, or all of them would end up in the Tower, with nothing but a swift, merciless death ahead of them.

“Surely,” she stated loudly enough to be heard, but not loudly enough to command the room as the chatter of twelve raucous gentlemen used to ignoring the voices of their wives continued to dominate the walls of the small parlour. Marching over to the fireplace and picking up a poker, she banged on the floor three times, “Gentlemen, Gentlemen, Gentlemen! I beg your attention, please do not do the mother of the focus of your endeavour such an injustice.”

 The men in the room began to quieten until Percival Warner, the lord of the manor that abutted their own to the north began to gripe about her even being included in the meeting. “It is called the Cheshire Gentlemen, not the Cheshire Gentlemen and their Errant Daughters. This is simply the point which I am trying to make, albeit not as eloquently as I would like.”

He leaned over to Henry Danvers, who was sitting next to him and began to laugh. The laughter began to spread around the room like wildfire until Sophia, furious and red-faced, screamed for them to be silent.

 “How dare you have the presumption that you can use my children as figureheads for your futile exercise, whilst at the same time demeaning anything that I may have to say.” She spat out the words, as the room fell to quiet and the assembly attended to her every word. “I may not be a gentleman, but I am the daughter of a Duke and as such I outrank most of you here. Do you fail to see that the arrogance of your sex is what will eventually be your downfall?”

 “We are hear to discuss the action we are going to take, Lady Clarendon, and not sentimentalise your love affair with the King,” quipped Robert Piers, a local landowner who would have been quite handsome, excepting the large scar on his right cheek which he had received in a less than honourable duel.

“As you know, Mr Piers, I was the accepted Mistress of the King at court, holding a position that you probably wouldn’t recognise if it slashed your other cheek,” she looked at him pointedly. Men like Piers forgot that she could hold her own at court, that she wouldn’t be bullied and subjugated like their own wives.

 “As far as I am aware, Lady Clarendon, we are all fully knowledgeable of the ‘position’ that you held at court, but your ability to sire Royal bastards does not make your attendance here necessary.”

 George Darcy, the most senior man in the room rose to his feet and walked over to his daughter. He leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Madame, you need to leave this room now, you are doing none of us any good.”

 Sophia leaned back and looked into her father’s eyes, they were exactly like her own and she could see the spark of fire in them. He was an old man now, but still fighting inside for what he believed to be right. George firmly believed that James was the rightful King of England, as he had believed that Charles was for all those years of fighting in the War, or struggling in exile. There were risks in what he was doing, he was aware of that, but he did not contend with the idea that a god-anointed King could be usurped or replaced.

 Sophie curtseyed to her father before stomping through to the Drawing Room where the rest of the ladies were in attendance. She took a seat by the window, looking out onto the north front range of Pemberley, the beacons were lit – illuminating the circular driveway and the men below, who were preparing the coaches for departure. A year later she would watch helplessly from the same spot as four messengers and twenty-one Dutch troopers marched into the house to arrest her father for High Treason. He was escorted to await trial in London, his place of imprisonment would be the Tower; as he was taken over London Bridge he could see the spiked heads of Henry Danvers, Robert Piers and Percival Warner looking down on him with ominous, grisly faces.

 

 

Imogen looked at Harriet with wide-eyed disbelief, she had never heard this story before, had never realised that actual things of importance had happened at Pemberley, apart from Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, obviously. Bundled up in hats and gloves, and with cups of hot chocolate from the café, they were walking around the grounds – blowing off the winter cobwebs, as Lizzy called it – and getting to know each other properly. For the first few days Imogen had felt self-conscious in the flat with her niece, who was not much younger than she was, who eyed her with awkward suspicion one minute and a strange pitying look the next. They had bonded over a teen-based foreign language series on Netflix that they found one night when neither could sleep, and now infuriated Lizzy by swearing at each other in Norwegian and leaving foundation all over the bathroom sink.

 They walked up towards the top lawn, past the Rose Garden, and down into the Killtime Ravine. “So, what happened to Sophia Darcy?” Imogen asked, “I have never really heard about her before.” Growing up in France and then at boarding school, she had never really felt connected to the family lineage, it all seemed so old and faraway.

 “No-one really talks about her because of what happens next…” Harriet paused for dramatic effect, pleased to have the attention of a captive audience. “George gets arrested, goes to the Tower, gets put in really awful rooms and they don’t let anyone visit him.” She looked at Imogen who was totally engrossed in the story and nodding along. “And then… they let him go.”

 “Just like that? I thought you were going to say that they cut his head off or something. Placed it on a pike on London Bridge.” She pulled a funny face and then laughed. Harriet thought it was nice to hear her laugh.

 “What they did was much worse than that, I think,” Harriet said sadly. She hated the way that Sophia had been vilified and all but removed from the family history page in the Pemberley guidebook.

 “How come?” Imogen was genuinely interested in what Harriet was telling her and, secretly, she couldn’t wait until the house was open, so she could go and have a look at all these rooms that she kept mentioning.

 “When she was younger, she had grown up at Court, was like a sister to Princess Mary and Princess Anne – they wrote to each other all the time and loved each other a lot. When Mary became Queen –

 “Mary was married to… William?”

 “Yeah,” she nodded. “When William and Mary became King and Queen they exiled Anne to her own court out of town, where they let her get on with it. The sisters never really reconciled, and Mary died young with no children. When William got ill he recognised Anne as his heir and that’s where she got a bit power hungry.”

 “Right, I’m confused now… What has this got to do with Sophia?”

 “Sophia had two children by Anne’s dad,” Harriet pulled a face. “I mean, my friend Summer’s dad is fairly good looking… for a Dad anyway… but can you imagine having your best friend’s dad’s kids? Grim!”

 Imogen looked at Harriet in disbelief, “this is like a Soap Opera, but with royalty.”

 “Royalty is a Soap Opera,” the younger woman laughed.

 “So, what did they do to Sophia? You still haven’t told me!”

 “Anne summoned Sophia to Court and took her children into her own protective custody.”

 “She took her children? You can’t do that!” Imogen was positively horrified.

 “You have to remember that then children were sent away all the time and didn’t really see their parents until they were returned as fully functioning members of society.”

 “That’s not just then, Harriet, that’s now if your dad is the bloody Duke of Knobheadshire.”

 “Are you going to let me finish this story, or are you going to cry about how you grew up in a villa in the South of France?” Harriet looked at Imogen pointedly. “Anyway, it gets worse.”

 “How can it possibly get worse? They’ve taken her children and thrown her dad in prison!”

 “Have you ever wondered why Mr Darcy is just Mr Darcy and not the Duke of Derbyshire like Grandad is?”

 “Harriet, I have often wondered why Matthew Macfadyen has a mullet when he is Mr Darcy, but I have never really paid much attention beyond that. I did think at one point that Jane Austen decided to make a feeble attempt to hide identities, but she mentions everyone else by name anyway.”

They were walking back up the ravine now, heading towards the Dutch Gardens and their elegant symmetry. The air was cold around Pemberley today and Harriet was glad that she had worn an extra pair of socks. She rolled her eyes at Imogen, who was obviously freezing.

“Anne didn’t punish the family by having George executed or doing anything so obvious, but she did take away the title, which essentially signed his death warrant anyway, he was dead within six months of it. They also had an attainder to pay, a huge amount of money -  the estate was virtually bankrupt, and Pemberley was nearly lost because of it all.”

 “What happened to Sophia?” Imogen had a face of genuine concern for this once lost but now found relative that she felt oddly akin to.

 “She went to France; married a prince over there, but that’s about all we know really.”

 “What about Cyril? Did he live? Was he okay?”

“Imo, you know that he’s like our great great great great” she was counting them off on her fingers, “great great great great grandad, right? He was okay, he managed to keep a hold on the estate by selling off portraits and furniture, but only just. ”

 “What a sad story,” Imogen said in a mournful tone.

 “What a sad real-life event, you mean,” Harriet raised her eyebrow to her Aunt as they walked under the garden arches and into the courtyard, where the cloisters gave them the merest hint of protection from the cold.

 “Thank you for telling me,” Imogen said softly, “Dad never really shares stories from here. I never knew half of this stuff even happened.”

 

Harriet returned the smile and wrapped her arm around Imogen’s shoulder, she noticed that she was still painfully thin under the goosefeather coat, and whilst she looked okay if you saw her from a distance, it was only when you were close that you could see the dry patches on her skin, the bags under her eyes and the scars on her arms that she tried to hide with bracelets.

 “We come from a very long line of amazing women – the guidebook will try and make it all about the men, but if you look closely you will see that Darcy women are all made of much stronger stuff,” she looked at Imogen pointedly, before giving her a meaningful hug. “Right, I have to get to college, I will see you later – remember, my mum is off to London today for her hot date.”

 Imogen looked confused, “hot date?”

 “Yeah,” Harriet smiled. “We have the flat to ourselves – this means you need to buy the pizza.”

 “Okay, it’s a deal,” she nodded.

 

Harriet walked off in the direction of the north stairs, leaving Imogen alone in the courtyard. It was eleven o’clock and the house was opening for the day, the large doors at the top of the stone steps being pushed open as the sound of the centuries old bolts clanged around the walls. Imogen tentatively walked up the stairs, feeling in so many ways like she was walking in the footsteps of history. Was it these steps that Sophia Darcy had run down in her crackling satin gown, chasing the soldiers as they took her father away? Did Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy, with her fine eyes and rich husband, ever walk up these steps with her head in a book? She didn’t know right now, but she was determined to find out.

 “Welcome back, Lady Imogen,” Graeme smiled. He had been one of the doormen at Pemberley since the HHS had taken over, he had a friendly face and a lovely warm voice that made her feel safe and in the company of friends. “We have missed you!”

 Imogen walked through the door of the house and immediately knew that she was home.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**2010**                                                                                     

The train started rolling out of Manchester Piccadilly station as Lizzy Darcy ventured to London for the final time in what had been a frantic and tiring nine months. She was dealing with a difficult inheritance case; this trip should be the final visit to the beneficiary of a complicated lady’s complicated estate and, though it had taken many hours of work, many gallons of coffee and fair amount of sleepless nights, she was content that she had done her best work and proved herself, finally, as the latest of the Darcy attorneys.

The first gentleman to take up the Law was Francis, youngest son of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth, his father approving of the career path most suited for a second son and useful in the legal wrangling that was occurring behind the scenes at Pemberley. The youngest Darcy son had been known for his hideous fits of temper which saw him screaming for servants to do his bidding and resulted in him being disliked by senior members of the household; afterwards he would ride into the woods for hours and only return after everyone was in bed, still demanding supper. For all his obvious faults, he had been a brilliant lawyer and a key member of the Law Society in its early days; there was an Italian marble bust of his likeness in the hallway of the headquarters on Chancery Lane and Uncle Jeremy always gave it a reverent nod when he walked past.

Lizzy was often saddened by the story of the bachelor uncle who defined the career path of his Darcy descendants; he was buried in the graveyard of the small church next to the house at Longbourn after succumbing to pneumonia at the grand old age of ninety-five – born when the country was celebrating the victory of Waterloo and dying when the world was embroiled in what felt like an unending war. Next to the grand, granite monument marking his final resting place was a smaller, inconspicuous one – simply engraved with the name and dates – Albert DeVere 1825-1871. She knew that somewhere along the line that the DeVere family were related to the Darcys, but she wasn’t sure how. What she did know, however, from the many letters written by Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy to her youngest child, and those received from him, that the friendship was much more intimate that could have ever been revealed publicly. Lizzy didn’t know if Elizabeth had ever been able to read between the lines in Francis’ letters, but it was obvious in a modern day context. It made the small headstone, and Albert’s early death at the age of forty-six, even more poignant.

“Penny for your thoughts?” The man sitting across from her smiled as the train pulled into Stockport station. Usually she hated when strangers tried to speak to her on trains, preferring instead to hide behind the safety of a book, this was why she always paid the extra money for First Class. He looked friendly enough, was dressed in a smart suit and a pair of nice Oxfords, Hugh had always told her to pay attention to a man’s shoes.

“I am sorry, how terrible of me not to introduce myself,” he smiled in a way that was rather dashing, “I’m David Forsythe.” He held out his hand, she placed her own in his and he returned a firm handshake.

“Elizabeth Darcy, pleased to meet you,” she had smiled back at him.

By the time the train arrived at Euston, they had exchanged numbers and planned to meet for dinner later that week. David had been obviously impressed with the Grosvenor Square address, where she was staying with Charlie and the boys, and her ability to obtain tables at The Ivy. It was a whirlwind and one that she let herself be carried along on. He worked in the City and had a whole wardrobe of nice suits, expensive shoes and an apartment with a view of the Thames. They had crazy, drunken sex on his Conran sofa whilst looking out at Tower Bridge and he wooed Lizzy with a passionate intensity that she had not experienced before, she felt truly adored. The problem was that David Forsythe was newly separated from his wife of twelve years, and whilst he always proclaimed that he wanted to marry Lizzy and claim her as his own, he just couldn’t right now, and he hoped that she would understand. There was two years of illicit text messages, covert dinners and broken promises before he came to her one night in the hotel that she had booked for their ‘anniversary’ weekend.

“Lizzy…” he said, unable to look her in the eye. He hadn’t removed his coat, which she thought was odd, but she ignored the voice at the back of her head.

“Is everything alright?” she said, unsure but doing her best to stop the echoes of disappointment crossing her face. He nodded, as he looked down at his shoes. “I picked the tickets up for the show, have you ever seen Les Mis?” she continued with a false enthusiasm that belied the waves of panic rising in her stomach.

 “Lizzy, please stop…” She stopped and looked at him, her heart thumping hard in her chest. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m so sorry…”

She noticed that he wasn’t wearing his suit, wasn’t dressed for the dinner at Le Gavroche that she had planned for them, on his feet were battered gym trainers. She looked up at him in disbelief, searching his eyes and finding them unresponsive. “It’s Bianca…” he said flatly. “She’s pregnant.”

“Oh, okay,” she said.  “Is it yours?”

“Of course, it’s mine,” he sat down on the edge of the bed with a thud. “I never told you why were separated Bianca and I. She always wanted children. We had nine rounds of IVF,” he looked up at her, tearful, “each time it was harder to get over the disappointment. Each time it didn’t take it was like a little part of us died and then it drove us apart.”

“And then you separated, but…and let me be very clear about this…you never stopped loving her, you just hated yourself for being unable to make her happy.” There was an icy edge to Lizzy’s voice that David failed to pick up on. “What about me, David, did I make you happy?”

“Lizzy, you made me realise what it was I wanted this whole time. I wanted a family,” he paused, and then slowly, ashamedly, “I wanted a family with Bianca.”

“Well, I’m glad I could be of use to you, David,” she said, “I hope you will be very happy.”

“I’m so sorry, I never meant to end up loving you as much as I did. It was just…”

“It was just that you would always love your wife a little bit more…?”

He reached out to put his hand on hers, but she moved away and walked over to the window. The sparkling city was illuminated below her, and she wished, more than anything, that Harriet was there to look at the view with her and get over-excited about the glittering lights of the capital. Suddenly the gentle touch of his hand on his shoulder felt like a personal attack.

“You don’t get to do that anymore.”

“Lizzy…”

“Goodbye, David.”

He walked out of the door and she sat on the bed, wondering what use she would have now for all the fancy lingerie she had bought from Agent Provocateur that afternoon. Lizzy Darcy, ever the optimist, dressed up for herself and strapped herself into the bustier and suspenders. She ate the pre-theatre dinner at La Gavroche, sat in the stalls and watched Eponine and Cosette sing about lost loves and disappointments, and then, with the tune of ‘One Day More’ ringing in her ears, she picked herself up and dusted herself off. She never heard from David Forsythe again, but she saw the birth announcement on Facebook seven months later through a mutual friend of a mutual friend. He had taught her that above all else she had to rely on herself; he had made promises to her that he hadn’t been able to keep and played with her heart, and she vowed to be much more careful in future.

* * *

 

Benn Williams held the small velvet pouch in his hand, tucked inside the pocket of his shorts. It was something that he had bought that afternoon from a small artisan store on the boardwalk at Venice Beach. November in California was something altogether different, he stood out like a sore thumb in his summer sandals and board shorts whilst the natives were wrapped up in sweaters and Uggs. There had been a few Paparazzo hanging about trying to get pictures, but they got bored once they realised that he wasn’t playing their game. He walked up to the small beach house, just off the main drag, which they had rented for the ‘views’ and that turned out to be small glimpse of the ‘Hollywood’ sign if you leaned to side and squinted.

Rosie was already in the kitchen, blending a mixture of Kale, Matcha and Spinach and proclaiming it the healthiest things ever. He liked Rosie Schaffer a lot, she was fun and so Cali that it made him laugh at her pretentiousness. They had worked together on a film two years ago called ‘Tempest Beloved’, which had been terrible and filmed in the worst conditions ever. She had protested to her agent about the lack of Vegan options and was laughed at every day by the catering team, who gave her plain rice and broccoli. It was here that Rosie had met Yvette, Benn’s younger sister, and they had fallen madly and head over heels in love. They lived in the LA for most of the year but couldn’t commit to buying a home and raising a family here, or selling up and moving to a farm in Minnesota like the one Rosie had grown up on. When she was drunk, which was rare, the change in her accent from neutral LA to deep St Cloud was something special to behold.

“Hey you, where ya been?” She poured him out a glass of green into a tall glass, he took a slurp and grimaced.

“Wandered about… what do you think of this?” He tipped the contents of the pouch onto the counter, Rosie picked up the necklace and held it up to the light; the gold pineapple pendant glittered at the end of it in the bright winter sunshine, the smooth chain slipping between her fingers.

“Is this for Miss Lizzy?” she said conspiratorially.

Rosie had watched over the last few months as Benn, still shaken and insecure from his divorce, had met, insulted, flattered, danced with and started to fall in love with Lizzy Darcy.

“Yeah, do you think she will like it? I wasn’t sure, but I remember she told me this story about Mr Darcy and a pineapple – I thought it would be funny.” He looked so unsure and nervous about his choice of gift that she walked over and gave him a reassuring hug. Her head rested just under his six-foot frame and, superficially, they made an attractive couple.

“I am certain that she will adore it, why wouldn’t she?!”

“Women are strange creatures, Schaffer, you know this,” he said walking off in the direction of his bedroom to finish packing. His flight was that evening and he was excited to see Lizzy the following day, could feel the bubbles of anticipation dance across his stomach in waves; he couldn’t wait to whisk her away to the small hotel in the corner of the Cotswolds where he could spend the day listening to her laugh, kissing every inch of her and feeling his insecurities and fears fall away. Lizzy had made him feel safe and loved in a way that he had never felt before.  She looked at him through brand new eyes and he found that every day with her was learning how to skip with lightning. Benn had never expected to be single at forty-two, had always thought that his marriage had been the end of the worrying, the end of being alone, but he had found that he sometimes felt lonelier than ever when Madeleine was lying beside him. He had loved her, would always love her, but it had felt as if he was the filler for her missing parts, with Lizzy he truly felt as if they were two halves that made a whole.

The flight was long, and he couldn’t sleep, despite the luxurious surroundings of First Class. Benn never paid the ridiculous amounts of money for the decadent menus and fully reclining beds, he always booked Business Class and was upgraded at check-in; Madeleine had always shouted at him under her breath, but as his fame grew he would always be upgraded for free, so why pay for it. The money was much better being donated to the bursary scheme at his old college, which helped kids from underprivileged backgrounds fund their way through university. It was the way that he had been able to pay for his own tuition at Cambridge, back when the most working-class boys from his area could aspire to was a job in the plastics factory, or maybe teacher training if they were lucky. Benn ate his fillet steak and gently patted his face with the warm cloth, feeling no guilt for the opulence, as the plane soared over the Atlantic.

He held the small velvet pouch in his pocket, turning it over in his hand. In his other hand was a bunch of daisies – he didn’t know her favourite flower yet, but these seemed the most fitting for her and he was eager to see her face. The plane had landed over two hours ago now and she had said that she would be here to meet him, maybe she was stuck in traffic.

Four hours later, Benn called for his car and went home to his empty house in Clapham. In his hand he still held tight to the small, gold pineapple, not wanting to let it go.


	25. Chapter 25

The paper was slippery, the ink was thickened by the cold weather of the winter months and he found that it flowed slowly from the nib of his pen. The office at the front of the house was warm, heated by the fire that spitted and crackled, throwing out the scent of woodsmoke and covering the books on the shelves closest to it in a fine layer of dust that was swept away once a day by one of their many housemaids. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of his wife that was painted a few months after they wed; he could remember the day so vividly, she had worn a simple yellow dress made from a daintily embroidered muslin that had been part of her wedding trousseau, as she posed for the Italian artist in the drawing room of their house in Grosvenor Square. He would have gladly paid for a grander selection of gowns but found that his new bride had chosen a modest selection of fabrics and dresses, all of which she looked beautiful in, and all of which he loved taking her out of. Thinking back to those first heady days of marriage, he could remember the scent of violet and bergamot – it was a fragrance that could immediately take him back to dancing with her on the front lawn, falling about laughing on the soft grass, lying there with her nestled in the crook of his arm looking up at the stars over Pemberley as they twinkled and shone in the night sky. A soft chuckle escaped from him as he continued to write his letter, thinking of those summer afternoons where they drank their fill and danced the dances of their youth on the grass, much to the hilarity of their children who would watch, laughing and teasing from the balcony.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was an old man now, nearly seventy-eight, and his hands – once firm and full of strength – were now mottled with spots of age and wrinkled more than his vanity liked. Even though his fingers were still agile enough to complete the letter despite the thickness of the ink, they ached with the fatigue of holding the quill so tightly. Elizabeth was always waiting for him in the drawing room, reading, or perhaps teaching their granddaughter how to play her instrument most ill, and then they took supper together in the intimacy of the stag parlour as they did every night when not entertaining. He had always been amazed at how much a look from her across the room thrilled him, how he loved to argue and debate with her on issues, still trusted her more than anyone else in the world and those eyes still shone brighter than any star in the sky.

The Darcys had grown up holding each other’s hands – he had been the proud, arrogant gentleman, still fumbling around with insecurity and the weight of the greatest of expectations; she had been the impertinent Hertfordshire Miss whose main defect was to wilfully misunderstand everyone, but together they were an insurmountable force; an ideal match of love and intellect. There had been many triumphs in their marriage; his foresight to invest in the railway line that now ran across the northern edge of his estate had meant that the family coffers had continued to grow and, more importantly, had resulted in the family Dukedom being reinstated by the young Queen in a simple ceremony that took place with very little pomp at St James’s Palace. Darcy smiled when he thought of how his Aunt would have reacted at having to call his wife ‘your Grace’. Lady Catherine De Bourgh was long gone now, but he suspected that the thought of it alone was enough to make her turn in her grave. Together the Darcys had suffered the loss of three of their children, including his own namesake, who had crashed out of the world in an horrendous carriage incident that had also killed his wife and their unborn child. Their four older children survived and were conveyed to Pemberley into the arms of their grandparents who raised them as their own. Darcy had promised Elizabeth that he would stay in this world long enough to see Fitzwilliam, his grandson, come of age and this year the boy had graduated from Cambridge.

Sitting in his leather chair, Darcy found it harder to see the words that he had already written on the paper; he hated how his body was failing him now, his mind was as sharp and alert as it had always been, but he found that he ached more, struggled to walk and drag his old bones around the house that he loved. Outside the snow was getting deeper, covering the circle of lawn in the centre of the driveway with its obliterating whiteness. Mainly driven by the coldness that was pervading the room as the fire died down to embers, he finished his letter, folded it, sealed it with wax and placed it carefully in his drawer with a grand finality.

He slowly began his ascent up the north stairs; the cold wind penetrating the draughty house and spiralling up the staircase behind him and he felt icy to his core, unable to shake the chill which was enveloping his body and taking his breath away. He took a moment to admire the portraits, the artefacts and the objects they had lovingly collected in their home; each item on display held a special memory, each portrait was of someone who was loved or had been loved by them. He crossed the landing, the breath-taking sight of the grand staircase with the hand carved balustrade and the ornate plasterwork ceiling with the Darcy family escutcheon dominating the centre. He was taking it all in, as if he were viewing Pemberley for the first time; he walked towards the entrance hall, and felt lighter almost weightless, as he bounded down the small staircase. There was the first fleeting memory of his mother dancing in the hallway as she skipped along, holding his hands in her own, he could hear her gentle tinkling laughter and hear the noisy clack-clack of her pearl necklaces as they bounced up and down around her neck. He could hear his father’s voice, quiet but authoritative, teaching him how to play billiards and the gentle thud of the cue ball hitting the red, and in the distance, the sweet trill of his sister Georgiana singing and playing joyfully, loudly for all to hear. Amidst the music was the joyous sound of children’s giggles, the loud thumps of youngsters running towards him. His memories were becoming cloudy in his mind now, as if he was desperately trying to remember a dream, but he couldn’t quite grasp it in his hands. The drawing room was warm and bright; he walked into his wife’s embrace, holding her tightly as they danced and laughed. “Darcy,” she whispered into his ear. “Welcome home.”

_My Dearest Elizabeth,_

_If this poorly formed letter is now in your hands, then I have taken my last breath on this earth and left you alone in it. Do not cry, my dearest, for I would hate to think that sad thoughts of me would cause a frown upon your face when our love walks around in each of our children – the wonderful inheritance that we have bequeathed to Pemberley, and our grandchildren who will continue the legacy that we created._

_Ours has been a wonderful life together, through the best of times and the saddest of times, but everything bad was easier to overcome with you by my side, and every beautiful occasion was made sweeter knowing that I had your hand to hold._

_I am so grateful that you gave me the opportunity to prove to you every day that I was the gentleman worthy of you, and I sincerely hope that this life of ours has been as wondrous for you as it has been for me. We have built a strong family who have known what it is to grow up in a house filled with love, and my dearest wish is that there will always be Darcys at Pemberley, in the home we have loved so dearly._

_Please know that however my end has occurred, my last thought will have been of you – of you dancing and laughing with a fire in your heart and a spark in your eyes. You may now be a grand duchess, but to me you will always be the impertinent girl with the fine eyes who captured my heart across a crowded assembly room._

_Elizabeth Bennet, I have loved you until the end of my days and will continue to love you for all time and eternity._

_Until, by the grace of God, we meet again, my heart always has been and always will be yours._

_Darcy_

It was February when the roof in the West Wing started to leak, the water trickling down the interior walls and causing the wo­od in the Mahogany Room to swell and crack. The offices of the HHS also suffered, with three rooms being off limits due to plaster falling from the ceiling; superficial symptoms of a larger and more dangerous hole in the leaded roof that was threatening the very structure of Pemberley itself. Joyce had blamed herself for what she saw as a terrible failing, but it was more due to the huge budget required to keep the house in tip-top condition. Matthew Wickham’s ‘Pride and Prejudice’ had been delayed by another month and wasn’t due to be released in cinemas until summer, which meant that all the promotional material that they were relying on to drive visitors to the house couldn’t be used until at least July. Even though the West wing wasn’t as strategically important as other areas of the house, it still housed some keys parts on the visitor trail and was currently closed off to all but the most senior of HHS staff.

Joyce sat in the leather chair in her office at the front of the house with her eyes focused on the spreadsheet on her computer screen. Whatever she thought of, wherever she clicked, there was just simply not enough money to fix this right now, she looked at the small portrait of Mary Darcy that hung in the corner of the room. What would she do, Joyce thought to herself as the stress of the last few months bubbled to the surface. There was a small knock on the door, she took a breath – inhaling deeply, before dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and then throwing it away quickly. “Come in,” she took a large mouthful of tea from the mug on her desk, it had gone cold and she grimaced as she swallowed.

“Joyce, can I have a word?” Lizzy Darcy stood at the doorway, dressed in navy blue with her hair scraped back into a tighter than usual bun. The older woman gestured for her to come in and take a seat.

“Would you like a drink?” She got up from her desk and walked over to the kettle next to the fireplace.

She took a seat on one of the blue upholstered chairs that she knew used to live in the Bright Gallery. It was always a strange experience coming into Joyce’s office, which had once been Winston’s inner sanctuary – where he had prepped her for GCSE’s and her A-Levels, where she had found him one evening keeled over and suffering and unable to breathe, the place where the paramedics had rushed in and connected him to machines and taken him away on a stretcher as she followed behind closely with Staughton in the ancient maroon Jaguar. It was also the room where she had listened to Uncle Jeremy’s partner from the firm read out the last will and testament of her beloved grandfather a few months later. It was always strange to come back here and see the room looking so different – filled with all the accoutrements required to run a massive estate – but so similar. The walls were still the same colour, the windows still letting in draughts and, if she closed her eyes, she could still smell sugared almonds and cigar smoke. Lizzy shook her head, “actually, I’ve come in a more official capacity. I think I have something that could help us with the roof.”  

“Is it half a million pounds in cash?” Joyce said with a heavy sarcasm.

Lizzy looked Joyce in the eye, she had never known how to approach this woman who had poked and prodded and challenged her in every aspect of her life over the past seventeen years. She eyed her blonde highlights, the soft creases on her face next to her eyes, the way in which she held herself as the true Mistress of Pemberley, and then she spoke firmly. “I know that we don’t have the money to fix the roof, and I know we need to fix it. If water is coming in like that, then we need a structural engineer and repairs -”

“Lady Elizabeth,” Joyce started. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

“No,” Lizzy countered, “but you need me to help you. You need me to help fix the house and I have a plan that I think might work.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder, then another folder inside that folder and then a plastic wallet. In it was a piece of old paper, it was a letter written in faded ink.

“Are you suggesting a treasure hunt again, because last time Steve got sick of pulling kids out of the lake?” Joyce shot Lizzy a withering look, whilst she appreciated her attempts to help with Pemberley, Lizzy really had no idea what it was like to run a visitor attraction with all the red tape, ramifications and wrangling it entailed.

“Joyce, please look.” She pushed the letter towards her, the script was small, but tight; elegant cursive regimentally written across the page. “It’s Fitzwilliam’s last letter to Elizabeth”

“Last letter? But he outlived her, why would he have written her a letter?”

“He liked to be prepared. I don’t think this was ever meant to be found, it had been placed in a copy of an atlas that Winston used to have – it was old, we found it in the attic exploring when I was about ten. It was hidden between the pages, the seal had been broken so someone had read it, but obviously not Elizabeth.”

Lizzy nodded, as Joyce’s eyes scoured the letter, speed reading at first and then her eyes going back up the page, absorbing the words that he had written. She placed the letter down respectfully in the centre of the desk that belonged to the man himself, in the room where he wrote it.

“I have more letters.” “How many?”

“All of them,” she whispered. “I was saving them for myself because I didn’t want anyone to see them, I wanted to keep Elizabeth and Darcy all for myself.” She shook her head, realising now the selfishness of that notion. “But if you are part of one of the greatest love stories, then you owe it to people to tell them the whole truth, even the bits that are hard or scary or the parts that could break your heart, you need to show people that. Show them that no love, no matter how great or wonderful, is ever perfect.”

“What are you planning to do with them?” Joyce questioned, “I’m confused as to how this helps?”

“I’ve been editing the letters and putting them in some kind of order that tells a story, and then we can sell the book.” It was a shot in the dark, but Lizzy had a feeling that people would buy it. “Maggie has spoken to the Head of Austenation and we have a meeting with them next week”

“I see,” Joyce pursed her lips. “That’s all very well and good, Elizabeth,” she snapped, “but what about now?”

Lizzy looked at Joyce, she never understood why this woman hated her so much, how she always rejected every suggestion, always dismissed her, possibly thinking that she was silly and frivolous. Lizzy had never cared for the necklace that had been given to her mother on the birth of Charles, and she knew that whilst the Darcy family traditions and customs were special, Pemberley itself was far more valuable and she was utterly focused now on preserving what she could. She sold her Darcy Pearls pendant to a fanatical Austen fan in Utah, who had paid her eighty thousand pounds for this unique piece of family history.

“There is a structural engineer coming tomorrow, who is already paid for out of the estate funds. My dad authorised it when I explained to him how much you were worrying about it. And then there is this,” she took an envelope out of her folder. “This should help with any immediate costs.”

She slid over the cheque, Joyce looked at it incredulously before walking over to Lizzy and giving her the biggest hug. “I don’t know how you have managed this, Lizzy… How have you managed this??”

“I’m a Darcy,” she said firmly. “Pemberley is in our blood.”

Joyce spent the rest of the afternoon contacting the HHS Head Office and the engineer, started putting into action the plans that she had arranged in her head when she was praying for a miracle. Lizzy stayed in the office and started to arrange the precious letters on the large round table; it stood in the corner of the room and was where she had studied endlessly for her Maths GCSE, which she only passed by the skin of her teeth and to avoid endless rebukes from Winston over her lack of study. Looking over at Joyce, efficient and passionate, she realised what her dad saw in her as she arranged and organised and planned.

“You should call him, you know,” she said as nonchalantly as she could whilst making a pot of tea. Joyce turned around sharply from the whiteboard, where she was plotting her schedule.  “My dad, you should call him. He thinks you’ve fallen out with him because he didn’t call you after what happened with my sister.”

Joyce shook her head, pushed her glasses up her nose and shook her head, “I don’t think that. I know that it was a hard time for you all. I’m glad that she’s better now and she seems to enjoy living here.”

Lizzy eyed the older woman out of the corner of her vision, as she poured the tea and walked over to hand her a cup. The teacup clattered in the saucer.

“Do you love him?” She asked, passing her the cup, “because I think he is very much in love with you. I think he is simply waiting for you to say it’s okay for him to feel that way.”

Joyce laughed nervously, “Lizzy, what I feel for your father is of no concern really. Nothing is going to happen from it, we are merely two old friends spending time together.”

Lizzy sipped her tea, quietly observing the slight flush on Joyce’s face, the way she distractedly fiddled with the silver ring on her finger, the way she picked at the skin around her thumb trying to release nervous energy. “Don’t be scared of the weight of it,” she said. “The name, the legacy… Whatever you think it will be like, it will be better. It will be so much better. My father is a man who is capable of loving people deeply and with great passion, but he has always picked the wrong women… until now.” She put down her cup in the saucer and placed it on the table, “I think he has found the right woman now.” Then she continued, “you will, of course, have a truly hideous stepdaughter who you totally hate, so that will be the cause of your first big fight.” Joyce smiled and then looked at the younger woman, her hair down now, her eyes a little watery “Hideous? Lizzy, do you think I don’t like you?”

“Of course, you don’t like me! I’m a complete burden to your job here – Darcy in Residence? Pain in the arse in residence more like!”

Joyce recalled the occasions in the past where she had severely reprimanded Lizzy for her behaviour; the stern, official letters that she had written about her tenancy in the house; the rejection of her offers for help when they were busy, and she suddenly felt a tremendous wave of guilt. “Oh my god, I am so sorry…”

The two women talked long into the night; about past misunderstandings, about love and life and everything in between, filling in the gaps of a relationship that had spanned over thirty years.

“I remember when you first arrived here,” Joyce smiled. “I was over from Dunham, helping Winston out with some conservation work in the library. You were so small, so scared and so alone. My heart cried out to run over and hug you, this little mass of curls with a sulky lip and a suitcase bigger than she was.”

“That day was so scary; I had only ever spent Christmas and Easter here. Winston was so angry-looking, that first night I just remember crying until it was time to get up,” she looked up at the Joyce up under her curls. The room was softly lit now, the fire was crackling in the hearth, outside the first snowflakes of the year began to fall softly on the ground.

“Mrs Reynolds sent me to Lambton the next day to buy some fairy lights to wrap around your bed, and then spent the next three months complaining about them.”                         “She was very grumpy, but she always made amazing cake.”

“Trust you to think about cake, Lizzy.”

Lizzy grinned, “why would you ever think about anything else?”

There was comfortable silence and the two women took deep gulps of tea and warmed their toes by the fire.

“I never hated you, you know, I think I was jealous a little bit. I spent my childhood coming here – I have always been totally in love with the place – and you got to live here, you were Elizabeth Darcy – that’s something really special!” She took her hand in her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “If I was ever mean, or horrible to you, I want to apologise. You Darcys have a stiff upper lip and when you shout at someone, you mean it. When I shout or scold it’s my way of showing affection, ask my boys! I was always trying to protect you; you never had a mother, not really, and I always wanted a girl.” Joyce looked up at her and Lizzy glanced over quickly, returning the squeeze and looking at the fire.

“Please phone my dad,” Lizzy said softly. “He actually is your Mr Darcy – well his middle name is Fitzwilliam at least -  and I am fairly convinced that he will have no objections to your family or your social standing, despite what you might think.” Joyce could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips, “I don’t think I would want to be Duchess.”

“I think you would a brilliant Duchess,” Lizzy smiled. “You’re the Mistress of Pemberley in all but name as it is.”

“What about you,” Joyce asked. “What about your Mr Darcy? Don’t try and tell me that you weren’t a little bit in love with Benn Williams, because I could see it written all over your face when I saw you dancing in the entrance hall that night”

Lizzy wasn’t sure if she was ready to talk to anyone about Benn Williams. It had been three months since she had failed to meet him at the airport, had failed to answer his calls, had disappeared off the face of the earth. Then she saw the television interviews where he confirmed that he was very much single and very much on the hunt for someone to settle down with, and the print interviews where he was photographed, looking sad and sullen, musing on his divorce and life after love. She had watched from the comfort of social media as he posted pictures of London, LA, Paris, Chicago, Sydney, Brisbane, all accompanied by a bevy of women; who were polished, perfect and everything she wasn’t. As much as she had wanted to let herself succumb to the wonderful abandonment of falling in love, she had to take a step back and think about it logically, and whilst her heart told her to throw it at him with everything she could muster, her head told her that he couldn’t possibly be interested in her in that way, that she would be a temporary distraction.

But that feeling, though, that feeling hadn’t gone away. When she thought about the way he looked at her, it sent shivers up and down her spine; remembering the gentle rub of his stubble against her chin, the gentleness of his kiss, the way his body felt when he was laughing and she was holding him close; then there was the way he had comforted her over the phone when she was convinced that her sister wasn’t going to make it, how he had stayed up all night listening to her sob never once faltering in his steadfastness. Lizzy looked at Joyce with a haunted expression on her face, as if she had realised too late that she had left something precious and irreplaceable on a railway station platform. Joyce recognised that look; it was the look she had seen across her own face every morning when, married with four children, she had realised that not only had she married the wrong man, but that she had purposely, wilfully, let the right man slip through her fingers.

“Do you still think about him?” Joyce’s voice was firm.

“Everyday.”

* * *

 

New York was too cold at this time of year, he thought. Sitting on a bench in Central Park, he closed his eyes and thought back to the previous summer, a small smile traced across his lips as he remembered laughter like sunshine and the smell of coconut; in his pocket his fingers played with the small, golden pineapple that he still carried with him. He would stop thinking about her eventually, he thought, he would have to.


	26. Chapter 26

Nearly twelve months after the principal photography on ‘Pride and Prejudice’ had completed, Matthew Wickham contacted the CEO of Vanquish Pictures, Brian McPhail and let him know that the final cut was ready for approval. Even though he had accolades and awards, he was always unsure about having to submit the print to the studio – to letting himself be so openly judged by his peers; there was always an underlying insecurity there that he hid with a layer of bravado and noise, attempting to shield the ever-present nervousness that he wasn’t quite good enough. He needn’t have worried; Simone McPhail was a Jane Austen obsessive and, after watching the screening with her father, proclaimed it the most wonderful thing that she had ever seen. Brian, completely devoted to his fifteen-year-old daughter, was equally impressed with the faithful retelling of the classic tale – carefully crafted and committed to script by Casey Muir, and beautifully and artfully shot by Wickham. Benn Williams was perfect as Darcy, Jenny Graves shone, sparkled and stole every scene she was in as Elizabeth and Pemberley itself looked glorious, as the rough credits ran Matthew smiled to himself, content that he had done the story and his childhood home justice.

As he had worked with his editing team, Matthew had fallen in love with Pemberley all over again, seeing it through new eyes. When he was younger it had been hard living there; even though the Wickhams were never treated as staff, he always felt second rate. At school he had been the boy who lived in the stables, hanging around the outside of the in-crowd, listening to Lizzy laugh and joke with a group of friends who he didn’t know. They had belonged to each other at Pemberley but here, where there were new people to know, she left him standing alone – it wasn’t intentional, but it hurt nonetheless. He chose a different college to go to, away from Lambton and the little town where everyone knew everyone else, and he travelled out to Manchester even though it was an hour journey each way, because he wanted to be free from everyone’s pre-conceived ideas about him - it wasn’t easy when your name was so readily associated with one of the bad boys of English Literature. He saw Lizzy less and less, socialising more with his new friends whilst she still loitered in her same old social circle from school; he brought girls back to Pemberley to show them where he lived, and he liked to think he romanced them, although he was sure the house bore the brunt of the work. It had been Christmas Eve when he had gone to the house to take her gift; it was a book of poems he thought she would like and a Casablanca film poster. They had watched it each summer with Winston, as he dragged his old projector up from cellars - the faces of Bergman and Bogey shining seven feet tall on the wall of the Wyatt designed dining room, the projector flickering and clicking as they ate popcorn and drank Pepsi floats whilst sitting on 18th century chairs. It was early evening; when the lights were dim, and the grounds were dark.  She had been in the library, curled up in the corner bay window, covered in blankets to fend off the chill. He knocked on the door gently and she looked up, smiling at him in the same familiar way that she had for as long as he could remember. He walked over and snuggled under the blanket with her, and she nestled into the crook of his arm and opened her gifts, appreciating the thoughtfulness.

“Come a little closer,” he murmured, edging nearer to her on the wide window seat.

“Closer?” She echoed, and he felt his pulse race, his breathing slow down.

“Yes,” he said as he looked into her eyes.

“This close?” Her face was inches away from his now, he could see the traces of mascara in the corner of her eye, could smell the cleanser she had used earlier that day, cucumber. He felt her tentatively place her hand on his. He glanced down, she was biting her lip – was she nervous? He knew he was as he leaned over and gently placed his lips on hers. She leaned back for a moment, unsure, scared… He knew what she felt. This would change everything and regardless of what happened or any other outcome, this one event would change their friendship irrevocably. He could see the reticence in her eyes, could see her reluctance, understood it. But he did it anyway and kissed her fully, feeling her yield to his embrace. They stayed there for hours, kissing and laughing and softly crooning to each other as Nina Simone played in the background. The house smelled like pine and cinnamon, and it was Christmas morning before they reluctantly separated.

 

“Matthew,” Linda began, as she hesitantly hovered at the glass door of the corner office suite, “Cara is on line one for you…Do you want to take the call?”

He sighed, leaning back in the plush leather chair and rolled his eyes towards Linda who nodded in agreement before returning to her desk in the cubicle outside. They had worked together for eight years and she could anticipate his needs, remind him to take his echinacea and book appointments with his dental hygienist, and bat away soon-to-be ex-wives with a simple click of the telephone switchboard. It was all done with the utmost professionalism, of course, and this was why Linda Sobreski was one of the highest paid assistants in Hollywood, although she would argue that she was worth every cent and she would be right; despite the high levels of stress and anxiety that came from working in close proximity to one of the industry’s most highly-strung directors Linda loved her job.

“What do you mean ‘he’s busy’”, the voice at the end of the phone line challenged, “…having lunch at Sugarfish with Benn Williams and his latest conquest is not what I call busy.”

Linda stood firm, genuinely fatigued by the almost hourly rants. “I apologise, Mrs Wickham…Would you like to leave a message?” There was a saccharine tone to her Brooklyn accent that she knew would cause Cara to get even more aggravated than she already was, and it was intentional. For all his demanding ways, fuelled in part by his ego, Linda was irrevocably and totally on Matthew’s side and would defend him to the death in any battle, especially with the ash-blonde, entitled, leggy bitch of a woman who was playing the divorce courts to her own advantage, despite there being copious amounts of evidence regarding her own infidelities.

“Fuck you, Linda,” the voice shrieked in jarring, clipped British tones, before the slamming of the phone down harshly signalled the end of the call. Linda smiled with the merest hint of smugness, anything she could do to make Cara Wickham’s day ever so slightly more unpleasant was worth it.

The marriage had already been over before he had even left for Derbyshire the previous summer; there were no sad declarations, just a mutual apathy. He had his own indiscretions, but she had her own, and whilst he was discreet, kept these away from her and their sons, she had flaunted her succession of lovers all over Southern California. Whilst he was well-known in industry circles, he wasn’t famous enough for it to have hit the newspapers, and he was grateful that his children didn’t have to see the pictures of their mother kissing and canoodling with their twenty-three-year-old tennis coach in the small tequila bar in Calabasas all over the press. He knew he was being a hypocrite; knew that there had been at least four actresses who could come forward and claim they had an on-set relationship, but he had always been cautious, had never allowed himself to get caught until this last time, when weighed down, tired, and stressed, they had left the hotel at the same time, inadvertently gotten into the same car and gone for breakfast, forgetting about the random photographers still loitering. It had taken one picture; gently tucking her hair behind her ear as she smiled up at him, that betrayed their relationship and set off a chain of events that meant he now living in a condo in Beverley Grove.

“What time is the flight to Heathrow?” He questioned Linda as he flicked through a pile of post on his desk, the sun was warm despite it being nearly November and he was glad that he would be back in England to feel the change in the seasons. As much as he loved living in LA, the constant heat and unwavering joviality of the natives caused him to long for the content silence of the tube, or the pleasantness of unseasonal rainfall where you ended up soaked to the skin.

“Eight o’clock, but there were no transfers to Manchester, so I have booked you a car to take you up to Pemberley,” Linda confirmed as she handed him a wodge of travel documents. “Tamsin’s tickets are in there too.” She raised her eyebrows at him, he looked at her aghast with mock chagrin. Linda hadn’t seen Matthew happy in a long time, and whatever this girl was doing for him then she wanted her to keep on doing it. They would be away for a few months now; there was the promotional tour of the film that would be planned by the studio and Linda was looking to her vacation in Hawaii as she handed over the reins to her British counterpart. Matthew threw a few items in his bag, kissed Linda on the cheek and waved her farewell. It was going to be a long six weeks.

* * *

 

It was nightfall by the time the car pulled up at Pemberley, Tamsin had been curled up on the backseat with him, and he had dropped her off at the hotel, where she ordered room service and took a bath before sleeping until morning. Lizzy watched as Matthew hurried across the courtyard in the cold night air and tapped in the code which gave him access to the north staircase. Harriet was already waiting for him at the top of the staircase, eager to see her dad after the long separation. As much as technology made it easier for the due to keep in touch, Skype didn’t really replace being close to each other in flesh and bone. She walked into the kitchen and made coffee, tossing a few biscuits onto a plate and planning on making herself scarce. He bowled through the door of the apartment as he always did and plonked himself on the sofa, with Harriet following behind carrying a bag of doughnuts that he had picked up from the motorway services. They switched on the television, chatting and talking and catching up with each other. She was always so amazed at how similar they were, the same mannerisms manifesting themselves so clearly now that she saw them both together, the way they both spoke with their mouths full – eager to eat and tell the world a story, how they crossed their legs in the same direction, or placed one arm behind the head and onto the opposite shoulder as they concentrated.

The television was on a low murmur, the lights lowered apart from the gentle glow of the reading lamp that hovered over the couch where she was sitting. He padded softly down the winding wooden staircase, his fingers grazing the rough finish of the wall as it curled into the living room.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” He asked softly.

She looked up and nodded, closing her book before following him into the kitchen. He boiled the kettle and warmed the pot as she put two slices of bread in the toaster.

“Toast is always a brilliant idea,” he agreed, his arm gently grazing the base of her back as he reached into the fridge for the milk and passed her the butter.

“Are you sure you’re okay having full-fat butter and not avocado spread,” she joked, a faint smiled on her lips, and he grinned at her as he poured the tea.

They walked back into the front room, taking seats on opposite couches, munching on toast and slurping on tea.

“So, Harriet tells me that the book is doing well,” he stated as he brushed toast crumbs from his jumper, crossing his legs as he sat up on the couch.

“Yes,” she enthused. “I can’t quite believe it…”

The book of Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy’s letters – ‘Bewitched, Body and Soul’- had immediately been a bestseller, remaining at the top of the charts for three months – Lizzy and Joyce had crafted an amazing narrative out of the letters they had written to each other, and the result was a story that was truly real; heartbreaking, uplifting, inspiring and ultimately true. Hugh had written a foreword for the book gently prodded by his new wife-to-be and, together with Maggie, Joyce had also convinced her big bosses at the HHS to allow rare pictures and portraits from the archives to be reproduced within it. The sales of the book had raised enough money to repair the roof and allowed Paddock Cottage – childhood home of the dastardly George Wickham – to be restored and re-opened on the visitors’ trail. Lizzy had included the letter that Elizabeth had written to Jane which had vindicated Wickham and his elopement with Lydia Bennet. Maggie had nearly cried when she had read the letter in the draft version of the book she had been presented with, but Lizzy had done this for Matthew too, whether he ever knew it or not.

“Proud of you, Lizard,” he uttered, draining the last dregs of tea from his mug. “You were always wasted in a law office.”

“Well, I’m glad you approve,” she smiled. “Maybe it can be your sequel!”

“Let me get this one out of the way first… Can we still not convince you to come to the premiere?” He looked at her expectantly, already knowing her answer.

“No, you cannot convince me on this I’m afraid,” she grabbed her cup and his, gestured that she was making a drink and walked back into the kitchen. “Besides which, I don’t think you want to piss off Cara more than is necessary,” she shouted through, her voice echoing through the small corridor.

It was nice to see him now, for the first time in so long, unfettered by the weight of Cara who had such suppressing personality that sometimes Lizzy had forgotten who he was. Harriet had told her about his relationship with Tamsin McLeod, and she could see that he was happier now – enjoying his success rather than worried about how it might impact his relationship. There was a rattle of the front door and Imogen walked in, followed by Sam – one of the under-gardeners – it was late and they hadn’t been expecting an audience, Sam fumbled a kiss as Imogen turned around quickly, distracted by the noise, and his kiss ended up on her shoulder.

“Erm… hello… didn’t expect you to be still here” She walked over to Matthew who rose to greet her, planting an air kiss on her cheek. “thought jet lag would have got you.”

“No, but your sister has been plying me with carbs, so my personal trainer will be pissed once I get back home,” he looked at Lizzy, who had come back through with more tea, with a cheeky glint in his eye.

 “I’ll get off now,” Sam stammered from the doorway, where he had stood awkward and silent. Imogen walked back to him, ushering him out of the door so that they could say their goodbyes.

Matthew took a seat next to Lizzy on the old red sofa where they had made so many memories and mistakes. “That seems to be going well,” he laughed as he dunked a rich tea into his mug. He reached over and turned the TV off, clicking on iPod that was next to the couch and turning it to random.

“Yes,” Lizzy grinned. “She seems to be sorting herself out, she just needed looking after, I think. She enrolled herself in college, and I think she might have a boyfriend given how many times he ends up here.”

Almost on cue, Imogen entered again and looked at them both sheepishly before announcing that she was going to bed. They looked at each other and laughed, it was always this that Lizzy had missed the most – the easy camaraderie and shared history that had made their friendship so precious, that had made the ending of their relationship feel like a tragedy. She always had so many unanswered questions that she was almost scared to ask, as if the answers would never be as a real as the ones that she had already concocted in her head. The dulcet tones of Nina Simone wafted out over the surround sound system, the gentle chords underscoring the haunting melody.

“This,” he whispered. “This was the song playing when I kissed you for the first time.”

 “I remember,” she said as they were both fell into silence, treading water in a shared memory.

“I always believe that you and I were meant for each other,” he said seriously, fumbling with the cup in his hand, before looking her directly in the eye. “That somewhere out there in an alternate reality we have all the things we wanted – the stone built house in the country with the AGA and the stone floor, the twins – a boy and a girl, and one on the way – and Dennis the greyhound who we rescued on a whim.” He smiled at, and she smiled back recognising the common daydream they had shared. “And every day, we pinch ourselves because life is not meant to be this amazing, and as we curl up each night in our pyjamas and thick socks – you are reading some huge history book, me finally learning how to play guitar – we look at each other and we know that we are the lucky ones.”

He looked at her, she was still the same girl that he had loved for half his life – the girl whose laughter he would know anywhere, no longer a stranger. They had left so many things about them open-ended, but this conversation on this cold Winter night at the top of the house in Derbyshire seemed to provide them both with the closure that they needed. Even though Lizzy knew that there were many questions that she would never receive the answers to, she sensed that maybe she didn’t need them, that this was enough.

 “We would never call the dog Dennis,” a grin passing across her face, before sadness pricked at her eyes and she held back for a moment not wanting to cry. “The problem is that not everything we have is meant to be ours to keep,” she reached over and held his hand, stroking the gap on his left hand where his wedding band used to be. “Even the most wonderful things expire in time. But,” she said feeling happier now, lighter, “these are replaced by newer, brighter, shinier things. Things that we can hold in our hands and keep safe for as long as we need.”

They sat there for what seemed like the longest time until he spoke, “I had lunch with Benn yesterday.”

“Right,” she said, not wanting to look up, not wanting to see the look in his eye. “Who is he with this week?”

Benn Williams had dated voraciously over the last year, Matthew had met them all in various forms and various guises, and they all had one thing in common, they were all pale imitations of Elizabeth Darcy. Francesca had dark curls, but nothing else to recommend her. Sarah wore petticoats in the middle of summer, sweating profusely as they ate lunch on the terrace at Spago. Marilyn was an attorney, snapping at the waiter and making disparaging comments. The latest, Natasha, bore more than a passing resemblance to Lizzy – the same height, the same hair, even the same laugh if you listened carefully – and Benn seemed to like her a lot, even if she had the personality of a teaspoon. He wasn’t sure what had happened with Benn and Lizzy, he remembered mentioned to Benn one night, offhand, as they drank in the small bar after filming that she was emotionally closed off, that she took her time to commit to anything or anyone. It was true, but it was because she weighed up every outcome before deciding on any course of action. He knew that Benn had contacted Lizzy a lot during the last few days of filming, when she had been in London and he in Derbyshire, powerless to do anything, and he saw the chemistry between them on film when he had been editing the Netherfield Ball scene. As he had sat in the air-conditioned comfort of the editing suite with Thelma and Dylan, piecing together the intricate jigsaw of shots, the key pieces of the story, he could see the small glances and looks between his close friend and the mother of his child. They were unnoticeable to anyone else, but he could see the tiny sparks of something there, recognised the way she looked at Benn because it had been the way she used to look at him.

“She’s called Natasha,” he explained. “He’s bringing her to the premiere – well, the London one at least. They’re flying over tomorrow.”

 “Oh,” she faltered. “Well, that’s nice for him.”

He had known her too long to know that there was no point in pushing this any further tonight, but he sincerely hoped that she would swallow her pride and contact Benn. He slipped on his shoes and put on his coat, his driver was still waiting downstairs and it was only a short trip back to the comfort of the Alveston Arms and the warmth of his girlfriend.

Lizzy stood at the door as they shared a comfortable hug and he kissed her gently on the forehead. “You might want to contact him anyway,” he said offhandedly, grabbing his bag from the door. “He’s doing the research bit of that ancestry programme you love, and it turns out you are vaguely related…maybe they could film some of it here. It would be a great tie-in with the film.”

“Related?” She questioned, pulling back from the embrace. Benn was from Oldham – the eldest child of a teaching assistant and a mechanic. “How can we possibly be related?”

Matthew didn’t know the ins and out of the discoveries Benn had made with the CBS genealogy expert, and he was determined that Lizzy speak to the man himself to find out.

“His last name is Fitzwilliam, so I think that’s pretty obvious, don’t you?”

“No, it’s Williams.”

“No, that’s his Equity name, his agent made him change it – his real last name is Fitzwilliam. Bennet Fitzwilliam.”

Lizzy guffawed at the strange ridiculousness of it all: Elizabeth Darcy and Bennet Fitzwilliam. “Why did he not tell me that?”

“He hates it…thinks it makes him sounds like an arsehole,” he confirmed, turning the brass lock of the door and walking out into the cold frostiness of the hallway. “Oh, and there is a watch he has, I think – it turns out that it belonged to Darcy, forgot about that bit. You should call him,” he embraced her quickly again, kissing her on the cheek and walking down the stairs.

Lizzy watched from the tower as he walked across the courtyard, buffeted by the winter winds that cascaded in from across the Peaks. She had hurt Benn Williams, and she hadn’t meant to – she thought that she was doing the best for both of them, but she had arrogantly made the decision without even thinking to ask him how he felt. She didn’t even know how to begin to repair the hurt she had caused, and even if it was too beyond repair to be anything more than friendship, she hated the thought of him being somewhere in the world and despising her.

* * *

 

He stood in the sunshine of Santa Monica; he had been in LA for too long now, accustomed to the heat, noticing the drop in temperature, wrapping himself up in a hoodie and boots even though if he were in England he would be walking around in shorts. Natasha had stopped to buy them ice cream at Soda Jerks, but he continued without her walking down the flight of wooden steps, holding onto the smooth metal of the handrail. The platform was busy with every slice of society folding up yoga mats and chatting amongst themselves as the session finished and he found himself walking against the flow of people, wanting to reach the end of the pier and feel the cool breeze of the Pacific against his face. He had grown his beard again, despite what Lucy had said to him he liked how it made him look like every other middle-aged man with a twenty-five-year-old girlfriend. They could walk about downtown shopping for groceries holding hands and no-one noticed, and he found that he liked being able to grab a coffee or nip to the bookstore without having to worry about waiting photographers.

He leaned over the balustrade of the pier, looking over at the crashing waves of the water below, white horses galloping towards an invisible finish line. He still had the little pineapple in his pocket, still used it as a lucky charm to reassure him when the struggles with his inner demons threatened to take over, but it also reminded him of her a little bit too much. Pulling out the tangled chain, he rubbed the links between his fingers, holding it tentatively over the water. It would be easy to drop it, to let it be swallowed by the ocean and disappear forever.

“Benn! Over here!” The polished Washington tones of the curly-haired, super clever Natasha drifted over to him on the breeze, he turned around and saw her holding two sundaes in plastic cups and smiling at him broadly from the top of the steps. He quickly gathered the chain up, tucking it back into his pocket before walking over to her and taking her hand as they walked down the promenade, eating ice-cream and laughing together.


	27. Chapter 27

Mabel Darcy was forty-three years of age when her loving and devoted husband, Henry Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock, fell off his horse and never woke up. She was thankful that they had been blessed with six beautiful children which, whilst she could claim this was due to a love of family, was perhaps more directly attributable to the fact that she loved her husband passionately. They had married at the small chapel in her family home at Pemberley after a long courtship which she had insisted upon.  Her father, tall and handsome in green, walked her down the aisle as proud as could be, and she saw her mother, resplendent in blue, dabbing her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.  Henry stood at the end of the altar, looking nervously around as she floated towards him in a light pink gown, with frills to the arms which she found overly fussy.

Her grandmother’s diamond necklace rested at her neck, it was a glorious suite of jewels including earrings and a bracelet and these had been given to Lady Anne from her father, Edward, when she had married George Darcy. Her father had looked at her proudly as he gently fastened the clasp on the necklace; these had last been worn by her mother on their own wedding day, and before that her grandmother on hers. As his only daughter, Mabel held a special place in his heart. He had named her after the Latin ‘amabilis’, it meant lovable, and in the dark days after her birth when his dearest Elizabeth was beyond his reach, it was the little sparkle in the baby’s eyes that kept him optimistic for the future. He had approved of the match with Henry Fitzwilliam, despite knowing that no man – no matter how exceptional, rich, handsome or kind – would be good enough for his daughter.

The night before the ceremony her brothers, Fitz and Francis had taken her out for a race around the park in her phaeton, knowing that this was probably the last time that she would be able to be simply Mabel, as the day after she would be Lady Fitzwilliam, Countess of Matlock, and they would never again be able to grab her by her arms and legs and throw her in the lake. The three Darcy siblings were close despite the gaps in age; Fitzwilliam was married with three of his own children now – his young wife, Marianne, was due to give birth to their fourth in the autumn and Mabel was excited to become an Aunt all over again.

The thought of new babies and giggling toddlers made her broody and she was couldn’t wait to start a family of her own. Mabel slipped off her pumps and dipped her feet in the lake as her brothers smoked; it was disconcerting to her to think that tomorrow Pemberley wouldn’t be home – that she would move to the estate at Nostell, the big old house that had belonged to the Fitzwilliam family for generations. She had spent many happy days there as a youngster, but to return to it now as mistress was daunting to say the least. Her mother had spoken to her about the day she had first arrived at Pemberley, scared and unsure about being the mistress of such a large household, when all of Derbyshire society were expecting her to fail, but she had the love and support of Darcy, who had chosen her out of everyone, and she knew that Henry would be as supportive to Mabel as she adjusted to her new role and got used to living away from her family. Mabel hugged her mother tight – they had spent the week packing up gowns and trinkets and treasures to be moved to the house in Yorkshire ahead of the wedding, and Elizabeth had dressed in an old gown made from red and gold and danced up and down the bright gallery, before falling onto her daughter’s bed, where they giggled until Darcy appeared at the door with a sour look on his face. Of course, this made them screech with laughter until his face cracked a smile and he joined them on the bed, where all three shared an embrace and talked until supper.

It was much later when Mabel, who had fallen asleep in the library, awoke to see her mother and father dancing together in the saloon, their figures illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight. She sneaked over to the sofa underneath the grand staircase, where she could now hear clearly her father singing softly to her mother, as she looked up and smiled demurely at him before nuzzling herself into his neck. Her father had always told her that to be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love, but she had failed to see how they had ever fallen in love dancing the rigid, complicated dances of their youth. Looking at them now she knew that Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy were the standard which she would hold her marriage against. She took one last look at them before gently tiptoeing into the gallery and into her own rooms. About an hour later when she was too excited to sleep, she heard them, drunk and giddy with laughter, noisily running into their own chambers at the end of the gallery and locking the door.

Henry’s funeral was devastating. She had never expected to become a widow at such a young age, had always assumed that they would live a long and happy life together surrounded by their children and grandchildren. As they had lowered his polished walnut coffin into the ground, she was grateful that it had been quick, that he had not woken up to experience the pain that would have ripped through his body as his spine snapped into pieces and the jarring wound to his skull that had meant that even though she could identify him, it was obvious that half of his head was missing. Bowdler had not wanted the mistress to see her husband like this, had wanted to shield the lady from the gruesome sight, but she had insisted, cleaning the body by herself as her last duty to a beloved husband. She had wondered if this is what her brother looked like when they recovered his body from the river, wondered if Marianne had suffered, had they been all too aware of their fate. The death of Fitz had almost destroyed her mother, it was only the thought of the three orphaned Darcy children who had survived the accident that had kept her from disappearing into her heartache, and given her something to focus on.

That night Mabel had kissed Henry’s cold face, said her goodbyes and returned to the house to let her children know their father was dead. Her eldest son, not quite seventeen was now the Earl of Matlock; Richard was ashen-faced when she told him, and she held him tight in her arms until the sobs echoed away. She left him, looking young and frightened even in sleep, curled up on the sofa in front of the fire, carefully covering him with a blanket. She stood for a moment in the hallway of grand house that she called home, before falling to her knees in the brittle coldness of the night, and letting the grief pour out of her.  

* * *

 Millicent Darcy stood on the roof of the Wyatt tower. In the time of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth it had housed the senior female servants, but now it was mainly used for storage and she had pushed her way past boxes and trunks to reach the highest point of the house. The moon was bright, the sky above Pemberley bluer than she had ever remembered it being in September, but it felt bittersweet.

War was in the air and the rampage of Adolf Hitler through Poland had resulted in an announcement that had sent shivers down her spine as they had perched round the wireless in the drawing room, holding hands and smoking cigarettes, before Sybil had run into the garden, crying hysterically and Winston, fully aware of the obligations ahead of him, stared at his mother looking positively frightened. Millicent knew that as the Duke of Derbyshire, he was far too valuable to be allowed to serve on the frontline, but she was sure he would volunteer to do it anyway, Rupert Fitzwilliam had been the only heir of the Earl of Matlock and look how well that had turned out for him. She still wore the small pearl ring she received three months after his death, still twirled it around on her finger, still wore it as a remembrance of him; even though she had loved again – the handsome American who had fathered Sybil and delighted in her for a year before travelling back to Utah where he married his childhood sweetheart - it would always be Rupert she chose in every lifetime, in every eventuality.  

The last war had been all about loss, but she sensed that this one would be about survival and she needed to do all she could to protect Pemberley and her family’s legacy. Before the estate workers signed up, she closed all wings of the house - lowering the blinds and putting up the heavy wooden shutters that had not been used since her grandparents were alive – leaving the drawing room and library open and relocating the family to the bedrooms on the nursery corridor. Under Millicent’s strict instructions, the staff began to pack up furniture and paintings, storing them in the massive service tunnel that ran underneath the gardens. She personally pulled all the family jewels and trinkets and keepsakes, everything precious to them, and locked them in the vaults that ran deeper than the wine cellars. They volunteered to take in evacuees from the local industrial towns, and the long gallery was filled with lines of small trundle beds ready to be occupied by frightened children who had never seen sheep before, let alone the herds of deer that still roamed over the ancient hunting land. All they could do now was wait for it to be over and wait to see if they all made it through alive.

* * *

 Sitting on the roof, Lizzy took a long, guilty drag of the cigarette – she watched as the smoke wafted over balustrade and into the still air. It was cold, frosty almost, but she didn’t care, even as her hand trembled slightly as she brought the cigarette to her lips. She didn’t smoke very often, mainly when she was stressed out or when she was sad, finding the repetitive motion comforting, which she imagined said something deeply psychologically significant about her. She had been up here for about twenty minutes, needing the fresh air to clear her head – if only it could do the same for her heart. The film premiere was the day after tomorrow and she had been gently cajoled into it by Harriet, who desperately wanted her mum to see her big screen debut. She only had one line “Welcome to Pemberley, Mrs Darcy”, but it was super exciting nonetheless. Lizzy could think of nothing worse than standing around all day in a dress that was slightly too tight, with her hair pinned into her head, and either being forced to make small talk with strangers or being ignored. But, she knew how important this was for Harriet, and for Matthew too. And she wanted to see Benn.

She wanted to see Benn so much that she ached. She needed to know if he still felt the same way, if it was worth telling him how she felt or if she had to consign him to history. She took another drag of the cigarette, too nervous to sleep.


	28. Chapter 28

Harriet had woken her up at ten past six with a nudge, they were in the Harlequin Penthouse of The Dorchester, it had cost a small fortune, but it was worth it to soak in Elizabeth Taylor’s glorious pink bathtub and look out on the winter splendour of the capital before them from their own private terrace. Winston had always loved to stay at The Dorchester, and Lizzy found that her family name caused some ripples of recognition amongst older members of staff who remembered her grandad with fondness. The suite itself came with butler service, but Harriet had already made coffee in the small service kitchen, encouraging Imogen to grunt herself awake by opening the doors to the balcony and letting an icy waft of cold December air flood in. At nine o’clock sharp, the first of the team of polishers and pluckers arrived and the ritual began. Lizzy had read once, on the Instagram post of a famous actress, that it took a village to get red carpet ready, and it was true. She had completely underestimated the amount of time it would take, and it was only now, seven hours after they had begun their toilette, that the Lady Elizabeth, the Lady Imogen and the Hon. Harriet Darcy were ready to glide into the waiting car.  

As Lizzy looked in the floor length mirror, she couldn’t quite believe that she was looking at her own reflection. The dress had a tight bodice, and pulled in all her wobbly bits, thanks to the amazing sucky-in underwear that she was wearing like a shield. It had little capped sleeves with sequins that looked itchy, but were smooth on her skin, and the skirt flared out from her waist, over 10 metres of organza cascading to the floor, embroidered with tiny golden deer. She had been bronzed and highlighted so that her arms looked luminous and toned, and she had no idea what they had done to her face, but she looked like a real-life Snapchat filter. Her father had pulled some jewels from the deposit box at Coutts, a glittering selection of necklaces and bracelets that had belonged to the women of the Darcy family for his daughters and granddaughter to wear, although Lizzy knew that his main reason for visiting the bank was to carefully collect his great-grandmother’s ring.

The Duke of Derbyshire had proposed to the love of his life at Mr Darcy’s Pond, up out in the park one dusky summer evening. Hugh Darcy had thought about it a lot, wondering if he should even consider asking her to be his wife -  he was quite happy to spend his evenings holed up with her in the small cottage on the outskirts of the estate. They had spent nearly nine months doing normal couple things, and she told him off for leaving socks on the living room floor, or feeding the dog too many scraps from the table. He loved having a normal family life, Joyce’s sons, James and Gareth, came over with their families every other Sunday and he found that there was great comfort in washing up the dishes whilst they all played and fought over Monopoly after dinner, as Joyce stood beside him drying the plates and humming. He often found himself glancing over at her like a lovelorn schoolboy, and she would look back at him shyly before cracking a tea towel whip on his bum with a carefully timed attack. He hadn’t bought a ring, didn’t want to present her with something from Tiffany or De Beers, she would consider them too flashy, too much. Instead he knew that he needed to outwardly declare his devotion with something steeped in the history of the family that she loved so much. The ring he had chosen for her, ably assisted by his eldest daughter, had once belonged to Cecily Darcy. Unlike the famed Victorian party hostess herself, the ring was modest, with a large square emerald at its centre, surrounded by smaller diamonds. He hadn’t needed to say the words, they had already been hanging unspoken in the air; quietly, carefully and with gentle kisses to his face, Joyce Hutchinson, crying happy tears, accepted his proposal. Their own story was now a small, but intrinsic part of the narrative that Pemberley would continue to weave long after they had gone.

Lizzy hadn’t known which jewels to choose; they all seemed so grand and so heavy. In the end she had chosen a simple hair barrette that had been made from Lady Anne’s necklace – the diamonds and sapphires sparkling in the midst of her tamed curls, which were now straightened into the most elegant of up-dos. She stepped softly into the glitter encrusted shoes and walked into the living room of the Penthouse. Harriet was dressed in a stunning pink empire cut gown, with a diamante band pulled across her waist, her own curls tied back into a fishtail plait, dotted with tiny pearls throughout, and a tiara that once belonged to Sophia Darcy perched on her head.

“Oh Harriet,” Lizzy murmured. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

“You too, Mum,” she walked over and tucked herself under her mum’s arm.

“Woah, watch what you’re doing, Lizard – you’ll ruin all this hard work!”

Imogen, with her legs long and lean like a baby gazelle, was wearing the highest of Louboutins and a tasselled Gatsby style dress that had been edged with an iridescent thread, catching the light in the most magnificent of ways. Her hair, now its natural warm blonde, was curled and pinned and she looked like a Vivienne Westwood interpretation of a twenties It Girl.

Lizzy thought that film premieres would be a lot more glamourous than they actually turned out to be, and whilst she did capture the attention of the press whilst standing awkwardly on the red carpet, they were more interested in real celebrities despite taking a few pictures of the stunning silver gown. The photographers did, however, go wild for Lady Imogen – who hadn’t been seen for months – and the barrage of noise and lights was immense. Lizzy felt Harriet’s arm on hers and they were, all three, whisked inside by assistants and handlers.

‘Lady Elizabeth, what a fabulous dress!” called a busty lady from the other side of the room, as she pushed her way over. “I’m Wendy and I will be pointing you in the right direction for today.” She began to lead them over to a sectioned off area, where Harriet recognised a few reality stars and poked Lizzy to draw attention to them being in the presence of actual famous people. Despite spending most of her childhood on film sets and fraternising with film stars of varying brightness, Matthew Wickham’s daughter got positively starstruck by people from Big Brother or The Only Way Is Essex. Imogen spotted Jonty, the son of the bread billionaire, with whom she had a televised tryst during her brief stint on Made in Chelsea. She grabbed Harriet’s hand and pulled her over to meet him, her niece blushing furiously as they all posed for selfies. There was a loud hum of people as the room began to fill – the Odeon in Leicester Square held over two thousand people and only a very small percentage of these had anything to do with the film, she was in the VIP section, but the room was also full of competition winners, regular people who had bought tickets, HHS staff for their co-operation – suddenly she felt overdressed and wished that she was on the other side of the velvet rope.  Abandoned by Harriet and Imogen, Lizzy pushed her way to the bar – not an easy thing in a massive dress – and ordered herself a pink gin cocktail, which was conveniently called ‘Moist Mr Darcy’.

She was messaging Debs and sipping it through a straw when the roar of applause and cheers from outside caught her attention. Craning her neck over the sea of people, she saw Benn Williams and a young woman with curls in a red dress walking in, arm in arm. He looked so different – more polished, much more handsome even without the sideburns – wearing a tuxedo and a smile he was completely, totally, every inch the Hollywood star and she felt her stomach do a flip. She was torn between wanting to hide from him whilst at the same time wanting him to acknowledge her. Even though she had been the one to not turn up at the gate, he had been the one who had been gallivanting across Santa Monica with another woman and even though it still hurt even now, she still wanted him to see her. Ordering another cocktail at the bar, she texted Deb for moral support.

D: Just stand there and look fabulous, maybe he will come over and say hello.

L: Or maybe he will just ignore me all night ☹

D: Or maybe he will run over and sweep you up into his arms and whisk you away.

L: Or maybe he will take his girlfriend home and propose to her.

D: Why do you think that because he is shagging her that he is going to marry her? Your mind goes from sex to marriage in a single bounce. Hehehe. Bounce.

L: Two gins in now, better go and sit down. Talk later.  

D: Remember my goodie bag! xx

 Lizzy turned her phone off and signed it over to the security staff, who also wanded her before letting her pass through into the auditorium. The screen was playing a phenomenal drone based advert for Pemberley itself, which was part of the Historic House Society’s promotional campaign to capitalise on the film. Directed to her seat, she could hardly take her eyes off the screen as amazing sweeping shots of the estate were shown on the screen, accompanied by a soaring, bespoke soundtrack. She never forgot how special her family estate was, but sometimes she needed reminding of how vast and varied it was. As she was finding her seat, marked ‘Lady Elizabeth Darcy’ she noticed the curly haired woman in the red dress walking up the aisle. She looked quickly at the seats either side of her own – on her left was ‘Hon. Harriet Darcy’ and on the right…Oh, God, No… the seat next to her was marked with a sign – ‘Benn Williams’, the one next to his ‘Natasha Lymefield’.  

Benn walked down the aisle, gently excusing himself past those already seated, Harriet and Imogen jokingly tutted loudly at him and he grinned at them both. Lizzy had to stand to let him past her metres of organza, as he squeezed past her, avoiding her eye, he was so close that she could smell his aftershave, could smell the faint tinge of alcohol on his breath. He sat down in the seat next to her, trying to avoid all bodily contact, as if they were strangers. She loved the film, laughing at Mrs Bennet, crying at the proposal scene and looking over at Imogen open-mouthed during a new and improved Wet Shirt Scene. Then there were the last few minutes and Harriet’s line, accompanied by her daughter hiding behind a tissue, shrinking with embarrassment. But during all of this she was thinking of the small patch of skin behind his ear, and the moan he had made when she had touched it with her lips. At one point his finger had accidentally grazed hers, and she sensed that little spark again; it was small, but powerful, and she knew that he still felt it too, as he moved his hand away far too quickly.

 

The after-party, on the roof terrace of a trendy hotel in Shoreditch was hot and busy, with a constant push and pull of people talking and congratulating themselves. The music – an eclectic mix of 60s psychedelia, 80’s cheese and 00’s anthems – was loud and thumping, the room vibrating with the bass. Harriet and Imogen were dancing wildly, enjoying themselves ridiculously, and Lizzy grinned as Imogen pulled a very famous and serious actor onto the floor during The Time Warp.  Despite enjoying the party, Lizzy needed air; she felt strangely strangled by the heat and the noise, and she pushed her way out onto roof garden, hoisting the skirts of the dress up in a most unladylike fashion.  

He was standing at the edge of the terrace, his hands firmly holding onto the bars, looking down. She hadn’t expected him to be there, was sure she had seen him a few moments ago in the middle of the back-patting throng standing at the bar, when Matthew had waved at her, Tamsin hanging off his arm looking devilishly beautiful in emerald green.

“Hello,” she whispered in a small strangled voice. He turned immediately, welcoming her presence with a frown, before turning his back on her. She walked over to him, the soft rustle of her gown feeling loud against the muted background noise. Tentatively, she stood next to him, placing her hand next to his on the balcony.

“You are a brilliant Mr Darcy,” she said firmly, trying desperately to hide her nerves and the waves of nausea that were sweeping over her. “Even better than Colin Firth and you know he’s my number one.” He said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge her presence and she looked ahead. “Matthew said you were on ‘Find My Roots’, that we - ”

“Lizzy, stop,” he sputtered, before glaring at her. “I can’t do this.”

He pushed himself away from the balcony, like an Olympic swimmer pushing off from the edge of the pool, before turning away and stomping towards the door in a dramatic gesture. He paused at the glass patio doors, the silhouette of him outlined by the party lights from inside. She watched him, like a rabbit watching a fox, trying to anticipate his next move.

“Actually, I can,” he uttered walking back towards her with an angry, mean look in his eyes. “I want to hate you, Elizabeth, for leaving me at the gate, for disappearing on me and never giving me any reason why. I waited there for four hours, I called you and left messages, everyone thought you were with me, but you weren’t anywhere to be found. Did you not think that I would be worried? I was so scared, Lizzy, so scared that something had happened to you on the way to meet me.” His voice softened. “I sat there in the VIP lounge with a bunch of daisies, waiting and hoping until I realised that you weren’t coming.” He sat down on one of the unseasonable sun loungers and put his head in his hands. “And…and…”  He sat there for a moment, still, thinking as she watched him again, wanting to know what he was thinking, wanted to know what he needed to say.

“And…?” she asked, swallowing hard, feeling her heartbeat in her throat. He looked at her again, but this time with a look of regret and sadness, before getting up and walking slowly towards the door.

“You don’t get to walk off every time, Benn,” her voice projected across the terrace, startling a pigeon who left its hiding place under the lounger and flew onto the roof, away from the drama. He turned around again, daring her to say something, willing her to justify her actions. “Sometimes I get to walk off,” she snarled at him angrily. “If you really need to know why I didn’t turn up then think about what happened the day before when you were on the beach walking arm in arm with Rosie Schaffer, or when you were having lunch with her at Spago, or even when you were walking down Venice Beach with her drinking a fucking smoothie!” The tirade had left her breathless and the restrictions of her corset was making her bosom heave as if she was in a terribly intense period drama.

“Rosie? But, what? Why would that make you mad?”

She looked at him and he looked confused, she gave him a moment to think about it and then gathered up her skirts and began to stomp off in the direction of the door, looking like a Disney Princess version of Annie Oakley.

“Lizzy,” he said warningly, “it’s not what you think.”

“Well, please tell me what I do think,” she challenged.

“Rosie lives with my sister, they’re getting married – she’s…It’s not how it looked… Rosie is..”

“Gay?” Lizzy questioned, “You’re telling me that Rosie Schaffer is gay?”

“Yes, well for my sister’s sake I hope so… and she won’t mind me outing her to you. She was really looking forward to meeting you,” he said. “Those times on the beach, all we talked about was you and how happy she was that I had met you.”

Suddenly the anger and the longing and the heartache of the last year started to fade away, her voice softened, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was important,” he whispered.

Lizzy looked up at him, the tears in her eyes that she had desperately tried to contain were now escaping slowly. “Of course, it was important.” Her voice cracked a little and the tears started to flow down her face, causing her mascara to smudge and run. “I thought you had met someone perfect and wonderful in America who you wanted to be with, and it was easier to pretend that the time we had spent together hadn’t happened. That’s why I didn’t turn up. I didn’t want you to let me down easily.”

Benn realised his mistake too late and now here they were; nearly twelve months had passed, and he had known immediately, as soon as he saw her again, that he still felt the same way about her. In the first few months he had purposely dragged friends into social media posts that he thought she might see, had been intentionally direct about looking for a relationship in interviews, had taken every job he could to ensure that he was out of the UK and wouldn’t be reminded of her. But he always had been. Six months passed before he started dating; women who all reminded him of her in small ways, but none of whom were her. He hadn’t thought to tell her about his friendship with Rosie, didn’t think it would matter. Surely, she had known how he felt about her. He hated himself for not realising earlier that he had royally fucked up.

He looked at her, standing there in the cold, looking like she had run away from the ball before midnight. The dress was amazing, yes – completely stunning, and her hair and make up were perfect, but it was not these things that attracted him. It was her vulnerability and her strength, her clever retorts and her mad half-hours, how she could tell when he had needed a hug, or a joke or cake, the way they could talk for hours or languish in comfortable silence. Lizzy Darcy was absolutely, incandescently beautiful.

“Are you not cold?” he asked softly.

“Absolutely freezing,” she shivered. “and I look like the prow of a ship.” She looked up at him, her eyebrow arched and, smiling, he placed his arms around her gathering her into his jacket. He felt her fall into him, and he held her close as the rest of the world faded into the periphery.

“I can’t be responsible for letting your mascara run,” he said softly as he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and as he pulled it out the pineapple fell to the floor. Taking her face in his hands, he gently dabbed at her tears.

 “What were you going to say before…” she faltered. Lizzy wanted him to confirm it, wanting him to say the words, because once he had she would spread out her dreams under his feet. She knew now that she had to take chances, had to put her heart out there – it might get hurt, but it would heal if it needed to. If she never asked, too scared of what might happen, she could live her whole life never knowing something so wonderful.

 “It doesn’t matter now, Lizzy, it can’t matter now, but,” he soothed, “when I told that evening on top of Pemberley that I was danger of falling halfway in love with you, it was already too late. I already loved you,” he paused, took a breath.

She could hear the blood pounding around her body, “you say that now in a past tense, as if all hope has gone.” 

All through the film, when she was sitting next to him, he could hear her laugh, could practically hear her smiling and he wanted to do was lean over, smile at her and thrown popcorn down the front of her ten thousand dollar dress. He knew that she would have giggled and then thrown it back at him. Instead he had sat there awkward and stiff, pulling his hand back when he felt that familiar shot of lightning run up his arm.

His phone beeped in his pocket. Natasha.

He had forgotten about his girlfriend, even when she had been sitting beside him in the movie theatre. Even now he had to concentrate so he didn’t call her Lizzy in a moment of distraction.

“I can’t do this now, Lizzy, I am so sorry,” his eyes were sad, his voice was sadder, his heart was the saddest. On the floor he saw the glinting pineapple and picked it up carefully. He held it in his hand for a moment, before placing it gently into hers. “This was always yours, I borrowed it for a while.”

She looked at the pineapple and grinned at him, “Darcy’s Pineapple, you remembered!” She had told him the story as they ate ice cream in frozen pineapples at the Chinese in Lambton. Holding the solid, shining pendant in her hand she could see that it was heavy, beautiful.

“I bought it for you, in Venice,” he uttered. “I always hoped you would like it.”

“I love it, even now… I will always cherish it, thank you.”

They both knew that she wasn’t talking about the pineapple. Taking her hand in his, he kissed it softly before placing his own hand on her cheek and pulling her towards him, kissing her gently on the forehead

“I have some things I need to sort out,” he said firmly.  “I… I…”

“You need to go.”

He nodded slowly, “I do.”

She looked at him again, unable to take her eyes off him, until she knew that she couldn’t watch him walk away again. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.  

Lizzy dabbed at her eyes, checked her face using the compact mirror in her handbag and pushed open the door of the terrace to join her sister and daughter, and to congratulate her oldest friend on his resounding success.


	29. Chapter 29

The yellow Mini darted up the driveway of Pemberley, over the hill, curling around the bridge, through the tall trees, fast and smooth in the curve of the landscape towards the house itself. Above them the soft twilight of the stars illuminated the way, as the four women inside sang ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ as loudly as they could in the vast expanse of moorland that lay beneath the stately gaze of the Cage. As they pulled into the visitor car park, they disturbed a few of the ancient red deer, who always ventured down after nightfall, perhaps trying to reclaim their lost land. The car came to an abrupt stop outside the small information kiosk, the doors opened, and Imogen fell out into a heap onto the floor.

“Fucks sake!!” she said exasperatedly as she struggled with the car seat, trying to let Harriet out of the back of the car.

“Calm down, Imogen,” Harriet warned as got out of the car and dragged her aunt to her feet. Reaching the smooth path, the girls paused for a moment to remove their shoes and then began the slow walk up the steep hill to the house itself. Arm in arm, they began to sing again, and their voices rang out in the emptiness of the valley.

It was May, and the air around Pemberley was filled with smell of the summer ahead; freshly mown grass, magnolias and the warmth of the air itself. In four weeks’ time, the Duke of Derbyshire was marrying for the third time, and this time he knew it was for real. The future Mrs Darcy, as she was choosing to be known for professional reasons, hadn’t wanted a big fuss making, however, this evening had been her unofficial hen party. Organised in the ‘Georgiana’ suite of the Alveston Arms, her future stepdaughters had arranged for family, friends and staff members, past and present, to attend and all were there to celebrate with Joyce, who had been overcome with emotion as she had been led into the room which which had been decorated with soft pink roses, white lilies and dozens of fairy lights. It had taken three glasses of prosecco before she had finally relaxed and then danced with everyone, thanking them all profusely for attending, before falling asleep on one of the plush purple sofas, the glittery willy bopper headband still bouncing on her head. The willy headbands had been Imogen’s idea and she had been immensely proud of them, whilst Lizzy had shuddered at the thought and tried to accidentally leave the bag behind in the flat.

“You did really well tonight,” Maggie said, as they followed the younger women up the hill, “I think she really enjoyed it.”

Lizzy laughed, “she won’t be saying that tomorrow when Imogen puts all of those pictures on Instagram.”

“Maybe not,” Maggie agreed. She stopped for moment, a few steps behind, taking her time to look up at the Derbyshire sky. “I had forgotten how dark it gets here.”

Lizzy stopped too, deciding to sit down on the path. They were halfway up the steep hill that led the way home. Maggie followed her cue and sat too, and they both looked up at the cerulean sky, which was quietly dotted with stars.

“I miss you,” she said softly. Maggie looked at her and then pulled her in for a hug.

“I miss you too,” she said. “As great as London is, it’s not Pemberley.”

“Pemberley is home, Mags, it will always be here when you decide to come back,” she reached into one of the bags they had brought back from the party and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in tin foil. “Cake?”

There was a silence again. Maggie knew that Lizzy was hiding something from her, she could always tell, would always know. She simply had to wait long enough for it all to come flooding out.

* * *

 

Benn left the after-party of the London premiere with thoughts of her in his head and the shape of her embossed on him as he pounded down the stairs of the Shoreditch hotel, into his car and back to the hotel in Mayfair where Natasha was waiting for him in the suite on the 4th floor. The car journey back hadn’t given him enough time to process the thoughts that had been racing through his mind since he had left her on the terrace. All he could think about was Lizzy, stood there in diamonds and organza, trembling with cold; beautiful, silly, caring, soft, warm Elizabeth, who had haunted his dreams for the past year, whose face he had seen glimpses of in every woman he had dated. She stood in front of him and told him that she felt the same way he did. No, not as he did, as he had done. Before. It was too late now for her to be making declarations of affection, he decided.  

As he walked into the hotel, with a nod from the doorman and the soft shuffle of his oxfords on the tiled floors, he knew that he couldn’t go straight upstairs and once again he headed towards the sanctuary of the bar. It was an instinct he had managed to subdue for nearly nine months, but the occasional glass of wine here, pushed on him by playful hands, the times she had offered him a beer to wind down in the evening, and he had succumbed, slowly slipping on a slope that was more perilous than ever. She was waiting for him, impatiently texting – he could feel the pulsating vibrate of the phone in his pocket -  and she would be getting gradually more annoyed. It would result in an argument, where they would shout and argue, and she would throw things before softly turning to him and kissing him roughly as they fell onto the bed and had cool, technical make-up sex which he wouldn’t enjoy, but which seemed to placate her enough to make her more pleasant the following day. Natasha could be nice; she could sparkle, and sometimes she made him laugh. It was only a small feeling he had, but when he was with her he felt as if she saw him as a trophy to be displayed. There was something about it that left a bitter taste in his mouth every time she kissed him in public, or when he noticed how tightly she held onto his arm in front of photographers.

He ordered a whisky at the bar, the harsh honey sweetness of it dripping down his throat like nectar and before he knew it, he was ordering another. He heard the voice in his head; warning him against it, and he ignored it. Doubles now; another, another. The world was blurring slightly, and he moved to the slippery comfort of a booth. Soft jazz was playing in the background and unknowingly he obnoxiously clapped as the pianist finished his rendition of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. People were looking at him now, small ripples of recognition, and he posed for a selfie with a gaggle of leggy hens, chatted about the cricket with a group of City boys, told an inappropriate joke to a couple on a date who awkwardly laughed until he wandered off, hiding again in the glorious sanctuary of the Bar at the Dorchester. He needed fresh air now, and maybe a cigarette.

Making it look like very hard work, he pushed through the revolving door of the entrance, and on the other side of the glass there she was. She looked at him, her eyes not faltering once. Suddenly he was in the freezing cold night, and turning back on himself to get back inside, to get back to her. Surely this meant something, surely if he believed in such nonsense this would be a sign. She was standing in the Art Deco grandeur of the foyer, looking back over her shoulder, still looking at him, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders, the glittering gold thread in her dress catching the light. He stumbled over to her, the new shoes sliding on the black and white floor now that he couldn’t concentrate on not falling over.

“Have you been drinking?” She hissed questioningly, and as he got closer to her he realised that she looked very cross.

He smiled cheekily at her, “just one or two,” as he threw his arm over her shoulder and tried to kiss her on the cheek.

“Fuckssake, you smell like a brewery!” She wrapped her arm around his bespoke suit. Hoisting him up and to his feet, she dragged him towards the elevator as a friendly porter followed with her bag and they proceeded to have the most awkward lift journey ever encountered.

It was 4am when he awoke to find himself in a strange room, in a strange bed, his head aching and his mouth dry. Somehow, he had managed to get undressed and put his clothes in a pile on the floor, although his jacket had been placed carefully over the chair by the window. He heard her get up, and then felt her pulling back the covers and slipping in between the crisp, cotton sheets, the gentle weight of her next to him made him feel safe. She was wearing pyjamas decorated with elephants, her face stripped of make-up, and she passed him a bottle of ice-cold Evian from the bedside table. He gulped it down thirstily, emptying the bottle before lying back on the soft, feather pillows and closing his eyes.

In the quiet light of the room, partly from the chinks of moonlight that were glinting through the gaps in the curtains, and partly from the lamplight shining under the gap in the door, he could see the gentle jut of her chin, the frown in her brow and he leaned over tracing it with his fingertip just to make sure that it was her and not some elaborate fantasy concocted by his whisky-addled mind. He felt her retract back at his touch and he moved his hand back shyly, afraid that he has crossed a line. His stomach turned again, had he misread the situation? A moment later he felt the soothing, cold palm of her hand on his cheek, her fingertip pressing teasingly on the spot behind his ear where his hair began to curl. Greedily he took her hand and kissed it, pressing his face into the back of it. She smelled like coconut oil, and he breathed her in deeply.

“Lizzy,” he whispered, as he looked deeply into her eyes, a glint of light catching in them. She looked nervous, he thought, but then unexpectedly, as if she had gotten caught up in a moment that she couldn’t get out of, he felt the gentle firmness of her mouth. He kissed her back deeply, feeling himself get lost in the magical wondrousness of all of this, as if he was still dreaming about her. He moved his hands onto her waist, then onto her hip, pulling her towards him so that he could feel the warmth of her against him. She put her hands on his face, dragging him back into the kiss that he didn’t want to end, then swiftly running her hands over his shoulders as she pulled him on top of her. Under the sheets his hands moved tenderly, hesitantly, under the thin t-shirt; he felt the smoothness of her skin, the soft curve of her body. He touched every fragment of her until finally, slowly, he was moving inside her, and he felt her push against him as they held each other tightly, before falling to the sheets, sated and alive. She curled up in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest, and as he drifted off to sleep, he swore to himself that he would always remember the image of her glistening up at him, the way her curls surrounded her face like a halo, the way she had bit her lip to stop from crying out.

A few hours later he awoke suddenly and dressed quickly, scared to look at the number of messages that would be flashing angrily on his phone. She was still sleeping, and he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, before stroking her face gently and kissing her on the forehead. She stirred for a moment, by the time she had fallen back into a deep sleep he was gone, leaving only a handwritten note on the pillow.  

_Oh, I could drink a case of you, my darling, and I would still be on my feet.  B_

* * *

 

“And you haven’t seen him since?” Maggie asked, as she tapped the keycode into the staircase entrance and opened the door, the gentle creak echoing around the courtyard. The house looked still and stately under the glow of the moon, the lights already burning in the flat at the top of the Wyatt tower. Lizzy shook her head slowly, before she recovered and smiled with the false face that Maggie immediately recognised.

“You don’t have to put on the Lady Darcy show for me, Lizard,” she reassured as they walked up the three flights of stairs and into the flat.

Lizzy sat down on the sofa and looked over at Maggie who was making tea in the kitchen, Imogen and Harriet had already gone to bed, leaving a trail of bags and shoes in their wake.

“It’s the not knowing what was wrong,” she played with the pineapple necklace that she found she wore every day.

“Well, anyone that hurts you is a complete dick as far as I am concerned,” she harrumphed as she poured the water. “Is he still with that Natasha person?”

She had been looking at his social media pages for the past few months now, but nothing. After the London premiere had been done with, it seemed that Benn Williams had disappeared off the face of the earth, he hadn’t even turned up for the US or Australian premieres, despite the film being a phenomenal and worldwide hit. She had asked Matthew, currently moving to Malibu with Tamsin, who was the new lead in a hot LA based sitcom, but he had not heard from him since London either.

“I don’t know,” she uttered. “I just don’t know.”

Maggie brought the two cups of tea over to the table and sat down, slipping off her shoes and unpinning her hair, “do you love him, Lizzy? I mean, can you imagine growing old with him?”

“Is this what you asked yourself when you finally accepted Pete’s proposal...” she said, her humour recovered. “Or were you persuaded by that massive rock on your finger?”

Maggie had dated Peter Edwards on and off for years, and Lizzy counted him as part of the family, Harriet even called him ‘Uncle Pete’. It looked as though they would never marry – Pete living in his own flat in Tooting, working as a DCI for the Metropolitan Police, and Maggie living and working at Pemberley – but they fumbled on and it seemed to work for them for a long time, until he wanted a future and a home with her, and she couldn’t find it in herself to make the leap from her comfortable existence to something new and different. It was the loss of Pete – the temporary split which saw her crying into her coffee far more often than she liked, ignoring the sad little glances from Kate in the ticket office – that pushed her to apply for the job at Austenation and move down south. He had proposed at the top of the Eiffel Tower on the eve of her birthday with a platinum solitaire from Tiffany’s. He knew it had cost far too much money, but his mother had always told him that shrouds don’t come with pockets, and Pete Edwards got down on one knee and popped the question as Margaret Jane Wickham accepted with the biggest of smiles. They had married quickly, quietly and without any fuss in the registry office at Chelsea and then treated themselves to afternoon tea and champagne at The Ritz before texting everyone to let them know the good news.

“Lizzy,” she said with all seriousness. “I want you to be happy.”

She rolled her eyes warningly, “I am happy, why would I not be happy?”

Maggie viewed her friend out of the corner of her eye, “Lizzy, I know that you are happy, but there is more to life than Pemberley; I think you need to leave for a bit, take stock of what you actually want. Maybe travel, take some of the book money and go on an adventure somewhere. Harriet is nearly all grown up, she will be going to university soon and what are you going to do then? You can’t keep yourself busy by doing the Lady Darcy tours of the house six times a week, it’s not enough. You’ve been rattling about since you finished working.”

Lizzy deep-sighed, but not from frustration, more from knowing that Maggie was right, “Pemberley has always been the place that kept me safe.”

“It will always be your home, but you don’t have anything to prove anymore. You don’t even need to live here if you don’t want to after the wedding,” Maggie tried to reason with her. Joyce and Hugh were going to be living at the far end of the estate for most of the year and even though Hugh had been reluctant at first to make the move back to England permanent, he knew that there was no point in arguing with his fiancée, her mind had already been made up. 

“I know, and where does that leave me, Maggie?” Lizzy looked down sadly, as much as Lizzy was happy for her father, she knew that the role she had played in the story of Pemberley for nearly eighteen years was now redundant.

“You didn’t answer my question, Lizard.”

“Do I love him?” She smiled sadly, “does it matter? He isn’t here, hasn’t been here… I can’t decide on something like that.”

“Love isn’t a decision, Lizzy, love is something that you can’t control, no matter how much you might want to. It’s something that you can’t describe or explain, and I know that’s hard for you.”

“But he isn’t here,” Lizzy rarely cried in front of anybody, not even Maggie, but she couldn’t stop the fat tears from rolling down her face. It was hard to explain what she felt for him, she couldn’t put a neat label on it and place it in a buff coloured folder, couldn’t rationalise it, no matter how hard she had tried to. “When I see him, it’s… it’s like … like the universe is saying to me ‘this is your person’, but then he’s gone, and it feels like the colour drains from everything and I don’t understand why he left again, because… that night was incredible. I’ve never felt like that before, with anyone… I don’t think I’ll feel like that again.” She looked up, her face puffy, her mascara streaming down her face, this was the ugliest of cries and it was making her feel vulnerable. “I’m thirty-seven years old and I haven’t found anyone yet who has loved me enough to stick around. There have been two loves in my life, Maggie, two – one is currently embarking on what only can be described as some kind of youth outreach programme, and the other is married to the love of _his_ life who can now magically conjure babies on cue.”

“Has Forsythe blessed the world with yet more hideous spawn?”

“Four. They have four children now,” Lizzy sneakily looked sometimes when she was feeling low, knowing that it wasn’t advisable, and she had seen David and Bianca’s brood increase every time she checked, their perfect smiling faces taunting her from the screen.

“Wow…” Maggie said sarcastically, “so what? That’s not your life, it isn’t your concern. As for Matthew, you know he needs to be adored, and she does adore him. It’s quite unnerving to watch close up, to be honest.” She had spent Christmas with her brother and his very young girlfriend and watched as Tamsin fawned and fluttered around him, he clearly loved every moment of it, especially when she agreed with everything he said, no matter how ridiculous. Pete had shot her disparaging glances across the room and later in bed they had laughed about it, trying to ignore the loud and dramatic sex noises emanating from the room next door. “But she is very beautiful, and Christ alive that girl can scream.”

Lizzy laughed despite herself, before the sadness settled on her face again. She hadn’t wanted to talk about the night she had spent with him, wanting to keep it all special and secret and locked away so that she could brood about it to herself, but telling Maggie about it had made her feel better, made her feel confident about the feelings that she had.

“I do love him,” she said softly, admitting it to Maggie and to herself. “I am completely in love with him.”

* * *

 

Lizzy heard the clock in the Long Gallery chime its delicate melody, sounding out that it was now ten am. The house was due to open in half an hour and she was currently rummaging about in the small cupboard in what was once her old bedroom, trying to find a box of leaflets needed for her tour this afternoon. She loved the familiarity of being back in the Knights Bedroom – hidden away at the end of the gallery, she often forgot about the Jacobean strapwork on the ceiling, the wonkiness of the walls and how the fireplace mantel was straight, but the rest of the room wasn’t. If she thought about it hard, she could still smell a hint of Impulse, stolen cigarettes out of the window and burning wood from when she singed the windowsill with her hair straighteners. The bed was still here, although it had undergone intensive restoration work, never to be slept in again; and the nail glue had finally been removed from the fireplace, although she had heard that it took nearly three weeks to gradually work it away. Pulling out the box of leaflets, she walked through her old playroom, along the north corridor and down the staff stairs towards the stewards’ room where a small huddle of volunteers, gathered with brews and biscuits, waiting for the briefing from Hannah who would let them know what was happening for the day. Lizzy walked in late, halfway through the schedule, placing her box on the table she grabbed a biscuit and sat down as the rest of the Thursday team went to their positions in various rooms around the house. This room used to be the Mahogany Room, it still was depending on which plan of the house you checked or the age of the member of staff you spoke to. She opened the two hundred year old sash window onto the view of the Reflection Lake, the peaceful morning breeze drifting in off the hills, carrying the scent of roses down from the garden near the Orangery.

“Lizzy?” Hannah brushed back into the room, hurriedly making a cup of tea as she gathered clipboards and feedback forms under her arm, “they’re doing the filming in the library, so you will need to cut that from your first tour this afternoon, that okay?”

She glanced back into the room distractedly, her eye taken by the small ducklings faltering about on the edge of the lake, “what filming is this?”

Hannah, busily grabbing for a radio and checking the schedule for something more important shouted back as she left the room, “Find My Roots.”

Lizzy felt her heart immediately palpitate. The door clunked shut and then reopened as Hannah walked back into the room to slurp her tea. “Oh,” she continued, “Benn Williams will be here later too, so if you can cut the State Bedroom from your last tour of the day that would be absolute perfection.” She swigged the last mouthful, “he’s signing autographs and books in the Servants Hall later for staff, I am so excited! He was FIT as Darcy… I mean, UFFF…You must have met him when they filmed here, right?”

“Yeah,” she said hesitantly, her heartbeat in her fingers.

“So LUCKY!” Hannah whined, “trust me to start work here like three weeks after they finished filming… the most exciting celebrity I’ve met so far was Jemima Lancaster, and she was nice, but she wasn’t Benn frickin Williams.” She disappeared out of the room, leaving an empty cup and the radio on the table.

Lizzy tried to remain calm, but Hannah’s excitement rubbed off on her too. Her stomach did a little flip and her heart was dancing, Benn Williams was going to be at Pemberley today, and she was going to tell him without reservation, without restriction and without fear that she loved him and even if he didn’t feel the same about her anymore, she simply wanted him to know.

 

He caught the train to Manchester, riding in First Class, but hiding under his real name. His hair was longer now, his face stubbly and he loved being able to order a chocolate croissant and a full fat latte from Costa on the platform without having to worry about recognition. He knew that if people looked closely they would recognise him, but he found that they didn’t look and consequently he felt like a normal person again. He was meeting the production crew at Piccadilly before they all travelled to Lambton and then on to Pemberley. The bulk of the research was now done and all that remained was for him to film some shots at Pemberley.

He had never known that his odd last name came from one of the oldest families in England, that through Mabel Darcy he was related to the current Darcys, and Lizzy. He scrolled through her social media photos again, he had looked at them a lot over the last few months; pictures of her laughing at party, dressed in a pink dress with a turquoise petticoat, wearing a headband with glittery willies on it; a picture of the Eggs Benedict that she had made one morning; baby ducks swimming on the lake at Pemberley; and the latest one, just from this morning, a filtered selfie where she was smiling and wearing the necklace he had bought for her, it was captioned: ‘Part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time’, and he knew that it was a message for him.

He mentally started wishing away the hours of the journey, nervously anticipating seeing her again, he was giddy with laughter and inside his heart was beaming.  


	30. Chapter 30

The young boy looked up at her with eyes as wide as saucers, he couldn’t have been much more than seven, dressed in his smart shorts and a cream hand-knitted jumper with a red stripe at the bottom, he scratched the back of his leg with the sharp buckle of his shoe and instead of relieving his itch, it had just caused a scratch which hurt more that the itch had itched. He had his hands in his pockets, holding tightly to a small, polished pebble that his mother had given to him off the beach that morning as the sun was rising. She had smelled like toasted almonds and cigarettes, and the faint scent of perfume infused in the comforting blue jumper that she had been wearing as she hugged him tightly in their house on Fleetwood Road.

“Can you play cricket?” The lady in the black suit asked him sharply. “Your jumper looks like one my son used to wear when he was at school.”

She spoke funny, he thought, like the woman off the wireless who introduced the songs his mother sang to when she thought nobody was about. The boy shook his head quickly, his hands nervous as he picked the skin around his fingers. He nervously looked around the room, hearing the ominous tick of the huge clock at the opposite end. The room was cold, even in September and he wished that the large fireplace was lit, although it was so big that he suspected the heat would be immense. His attention moved back to the lady in front of him, he had noticed her hair first; had never seen a lady with such yellow hair, curled on top of her head, her red lips pursed as she continued to question him.  

“Would you like to learn how to play cricket, young man?”

He nodded quickly, as she wrote his answer down on the buff-coloured card.

“And what is your name” she smiled kindly. “I can’t very well call you 27486 for the duration, can I?”

She said something under her breath to the sour-looking old lady sitting next to her, and he was fascinated by the scarf she was wearing, it was made from an animal he didn’t know and the cold dead eyes of whatever it was looked at him glassily. He had never seen one of those in Southend, but then again, he had never seen a house this big back home in Essex either.

“I’m Thomas Bingley, Ma’am,” he said in a small voice.

“Bingley, eh? Well, that’s a name I think we will remember,” she chuckled. He smiled wanly, not understanding the joke.  

They had brought the evacuees up on the bus from Lambton, there were twelve of them in total adding to the five that had already been sent from Manchester, more than enough for a cricket team, she thought. Earlier that day forty-seven children had marched across St Pancras Station with a banner emblazoned with Earls Hall school, they had been handed two sticks of barley sugar for the adventure – it was always called an adventure – and it was only as the train was pulling away that they realised that their parents were crying as they waved goodbye.

The twelve children billeted to Pemberley were accompanied by their schoolmaster, a broad, handsome gentleman called Jonathan Sykes, he originally hailed from Preston, but had moved to Southend to be with a woman he didn’t end up marrying. He had been seriously injured in the last war and was consequently excused from service the second time around, wearing a patch to cover the hole where his eye once was, the residual scars streaking across the right-hand side of his face like a roadmap. Millicent discovered that he was good at cricket and had studied at Brasenose College with her brother, George. They became firm friends, talking about anything and everything as they worked the grounds, digging up the 16th century flowerbeds to plant potatoes and carrots.

Hitler’s bombs failed to materialise, and by the summer of 1940 most of the children had been summoned back home by their parents. Only two boisterous chattery girls, Laura and Charlotte Jones remained, along with Thomas Bingley. He was getting good at cricket now and could either be found in the grounds practising or in the library, absorbing as much information as he could, as he dusted the books as part of his daily chores. Mrs Reynolds, observing the Jones’ girls making the fire, scolded them for constantly chattering and not concentrating on their work. ‘If thou don’t shut thee rattle. I’ll belt thee tabs!’ she bellowed in the strong Derbyshire accent that she only ever used in front of them and never in front of Lady Millicent.

The news of The Blitz reached Pemberley in dribs and drabs, for the most part they were sheltered away in the grounds and it was only occasionally that they heard the faint drone of bombers overhead making their way to Manchester or Liverpool. Then the casualties started, and the three Pemberley evacuees were moved to the Wyatt Tower, where Mrs Reynolds stood guard over their small rooms at the top of the house, the beds in the long gallery filled by the wounded young men who were shipped in from the battlefields of France to the makeshift military hospital at Pemberley with alarming regularity. Thomas often found Lady Darcy in her study, organising and planning, and he would sneak down to the kitchen to bring her tea and a biscuit, quietly knocking on the door before he entered. Sometimes she would ask him to join her and they would put a record on the gramophone, dancing around the small room as she lit a cigarette whilst pulling him into a twirl. Her hair wasn’t as yellow now, he noticed, and small flecks of silver were pushed back behind her ears, but she still wore red lipstick and smelled like his mother.

The exhibition of Wartime at Pemberley was proving popular today and the Long Gallery was humming with people and noise and the soft click-clack of boots and shoes on the wooden floor. It was a warm day and visitors had flocked inside, escaping into the breezy coolness of the building; a woman was busy scolding her toddler, using a gentle but firm voice, as he threw himself on the floor, an older couple meandered up the stairs gently holding hands as they chatted softly, a couple of teenagers in walking boots and t-shirts looking serious and reading everything, a middle-aged woman and her daughter speaking in hushed tones. The collection of photos and artefacts had been found hidden in a cupboard down in the bowels of the house; all boxed up and categorised, detailed and documented in her great-grandmother’s spindly, firm handwriting. Lizzy loved the picture of Millicent and Jonathan, standing in the Dutch Gardens, busy planting broadbeans and onions – him resting his boot on a spade, whilst she grinned up at him wearing dungarees with her hair tied up in a scarf. But it was the picture of the first wave of evacuees – Pemberley Easter Hunt 1940 – that she found the most poignant; wondering how many of those little faces, grinning at the camera holding Easter baskets with their knobbly knees visible, survived the bombardment that they returned to.

The clippings and cuttings in the paper always referred to Millicent as ‘the mother of the Duke of Derbyshire’, rather than as a person in her own right. Funny, Lizzy thought, how the ladies of Pemberley were only ever mentioned in relation to the men that they married or gave birth to. Millicent had never married, always danced to her own tune and had probably been the happiest of the most recent of her line – running her home, raising her children and doing it all wearing a string of pearls and a full-face of make-up. This unusual Lady Darcy had managed to keep the house in the family for so long, selling what she needed to, downsizing the estate and opening the house up for occasional paid visits; despite Pemberley being immortalised in English literature, the threat of abandonment and demolition in the post war years had always been a very real danger, and she knew that Millicent, with her clever mind and inherited business acumen, had been the reason for its survival.

Winston, injured and discharged, returned home in the summer of ’43, he had been serving in the RAF – flying out over Dusseldorf on a targeted raid one September evening, trying not to think of the hundreds of innocent civilians below who were unlikely to survive the night; later limping home on a tank leaking fuel into the sea, they had crashed into a field on the south coast. Winston had felt the intense pain as his lower leg shattered, he would walk with a limp for the rest of his life because of it, but as their squadron sat silent and still, battered and bleeding, they called out with laughter and relief grateful to be alive under the starry skies of England.

Jonathan Sykes never went back to Essex, instead he proclaimed loudly one autumn afternoon in 1944 that he had found his soulmate and companion of his life in the Lady of the House. They would live at Pemberley together for the next twenty-two years, where he would always make her morning cup of coffee himself and insisted on calling her ‘M’Lady’ when she acted pompous in front of him, much to her great vexation. Sometimes the greatest love is found in the small, quiet moments of the night, the gentle cool hand on a burning fever.

He died the night before the World Cup Final, peacefully and without drama in his own bed, which cast a rather sombre shadow on the celebrations of the following day. Kenneth Wolstenholme blared out from the small television set in the corner of the Stag Parlour as England made a play for the goal, “They think it’s all over!”  “It is now,” said Millicent, jutting out her chin and refusing to cry, despite the sad looks and pitying glances from her friends and family, as she sat silently writing at Fitzwilliam Darcy’s desk making plans for the funeral.

Millicent didn’t stay sad, she was a Darcy and it simply wasn’t good form to grieve for too long. She had had three romantic loves in her life and she was grateful for all of them, but the greatest love affair she had embarked upon was that with herself – she had lived so many lives, all of them remarkable in their own way, each one defining who she was at that moment in time. As she climbed the stairs up to her small bedroom for what would be the last time, she hoped that she would be remembered by those whose lives she had touched, even if it was in the most unremarkable of ways.

The Jones’ girls never stopped talking or cleaning fires badly and, after working with the Land Girls for the latter half of the war and providing Pemberley with much needed supplies and amusement, they returned to the remains of their homes in the suburbs of Manchester. When Winston opened the house up to the public in the early seventies, Laura Jones paid the entrance fee and caught the shuttle bus up the drive towards the house that she had lived in for most of her childhood. She found herself overcome with happy memories as she sat in the servants’ hall with a cup of tea, remembering the moment that Lady Darcy had told her that she wasn’t being separated from her sister as she had feared but that they would be living in this house from a storybook, the mornings when she cried for her mother and Mrs Reynolds would snuggle her close until the tears stopped, and the day they all found out, huddled around the wireless in the drawing room, that Hitler was dead and the War was over, all cheering with honest, thankful joy. Laura, now Mrs Palmer to the class of infants that she taught in Hyde, found herself quietly weeping as her husband averted his eyes and passed her a handkerchief.

Later, before they got back on the train to Manchester, Mrs Palmer took a small bunch of flowers to the small churchyard in Lambton where she knew Lady Darcy had been buried not eight months earlier. Laura looked down at the unassuming grave, so unlike the grand Darcy mausoleum inside the Church, and shed a small tear. She attached a small note:

You taught me that adventure can always be found in the pages of a book. Sleep well Lady M.

The room was much busier now and John had signalled over from the other end that someone was looking for her. Lizzy smiled at the elderly gentleman with the flash of white hair and the broad smile, he called her over and she embraced him warmly, he walked with a cane now, but was still as firm and broad as he had been in his youth.

“Hello, Miss Lizzy,” he said in his warm, Derbyshire-tinted accent. “Well, I must say, this is all very grand isn’t it? Who’d have thunk it of us.”

Thomas Bingley, orphaned by the stray bomb that fell on the house in Fleetwood Road, never went back to Southend. Instead the Darcys took it upon themselves to pay for his education and he was admitted to Eton at the start of Michaelmas Half 1946. He eventually played cricket for Derbyshire and lived in a small house in Lambton with his wife. They had raised three daughters, one of whom they named Millie after her godmother. As he stood in the long gallery, almost in the same place where his bed once stood, he felt a sudden rush of emotion for the long-lost days of his childhood. If he concentrated hard enough, he was sure that his old body could still smell Arpege and cigarettes, could still hear Lady Darcy singing ‘Wild Women Don’t Have The Blues’ as the gramophone crackled.

It was lunchtime when Lizzy, armed with a book, escaped through the throng of people in the bright gallery and trudged down the north staircase emerging out into the warmth of the May sunshine. The courtyard was alive with people; children running about, HHS members queuing to have their cards scanned for entry, volunteers and staff and everyone bumping together in this great crowded hum of noise. She politely excused herself past a very tall man with a large dog, who was arguing, albeit fairly graciously, with Kate from the ticket office, and then quickly skirted around a loud, American couple who were asking if Colin Firth was about to emerge from the Lake in his wet shirt, she heard one of the ticket girls say lightheartedly, ‘only if he’s escaped from my handcuffs’, and it made her laugh, even if the Americans were unimpressed.

She was shooed past the queue for the garden by Don, whose smile on seeing her turned to a warning as she nearly knocked over a small child who appeared from underneath a bench. The lawn was packed with people – picnics, children running about with balls and frisbees, parents sunbathing on brightly patterned picnic blankets and drinking wine from plastic glasses, a couple of girls from the Austen group wearing Regency dress and taking selfies holding parasols, as their boyfriends stood awkwardly to the side wearing stiff cravats and top hats. All of this was Pemberley; taking everyone into its big old heart and captivating them with its magic and she loved the days like this when that magic, that love everyone felt, was so evidently on display and the visitors treated the house like their own.

The pergola was empty, and she plonked herself in the middle of it and opened her book, trying to concentrate on the words, even as the bubbles in her belly were popping with anticipation. She had already seen the production crew setting up in the Library, only a small team today, and an historian who had contacted Joyce about the Fitzwilliam connection. She had never dreamed that Benn Williams, jobbing actor as he called himself, would be somehow related to her through Mabel Fitzwilliam-Darcy. That the boy from Oldham who pushed himself hard through college and earned a place at Cambridge, who would lose his accent but would never  forget where he came from, would be the owner of the gold watch that once graced the pocket of Fitzwilliam Darcy. His grandfather Thomas, a distant cousin of Rupert Fitzwilliam, had given him the small, smoothed pocket watch when he graduated, and he had held it in his hands, feeling the faint outline of the dedication that had once been engraved upon it. A family tree has roots that run deep and strong, but the branches of it spread out far and wide, the leaves falling through time and reappearing in the most unlikely of places.

Mabel Darcy never really recovered from the death of her husband, but she was determined to do something worthwhile with her life, something that would make a difference. It had been enough for her father that she had made a good match with a man who loved her and made her happy, but her mother had always wanted more for the girl who had lived. Mabel Darcy travelled far and wide; packing up her youngest children and leaving the house at Nostell that she felt was becoming a catacomb of grief, a shrine to a lost love. She visited Egypt, America, the Holy Lands, collecting artefacts and treasures, venturing further than most women in an age where a woman could be Queen in her own right, but where women were still the possessions of their husbands. She documented everything in the detailed and extensive travel journals that she would eventually become famous for, blazing a trail across the globe in a manner befitting the only daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. It had been the wax cylinder recording of Mabel’s voice recorded when she was an old woman, now digitised and replayed for visitors in the exhibit about her life, that fascinated and haunted Lizzy – almost as if Mabel was grasping at her through history.

She closed her eyes for moment, wanting some clarity in her head, feeling unsure, convinced, certain, doubtful. But she would know, she would know when she saw him again. The sun was hot, even under the shade of the wooden shelter, and she could hear the murmur of people, laughing in the distance, birdsong, the happy shouts of a youngster playing croquet on the lawn.  

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Stop. Breathe. Deep breath. Her heart beat faster in her chest and she didn’t want to move. She took another breath, and she heard the soft shuffle of shoes on the gravel, the gentle creak of the wood as it yielded to the weight of another. Slowly, blinkingly she opened her eyes, trying to focus on the fountain straight ahead.

“Or are your thoughts worth more than that nowadays,” he said gently, “because I only have a fiver, do you have change?”

Lizzy turned to look at him, he had a beard again, but he looked softer with it; his sideburns were trimmed to a suitable length and there were a few extra crinkles around those blue eyes of his. He looked nervous, unsure. The hint of a hesitant smile crossed his lips as he tried to gauge her reaction. She looked back at him and even though she tried to stop them, she could feel the emotions of the last few months burning up within her; how her sadness of waking up the night after the premiere to find the bed empty had turned into anger, how she had spent evenings drinking wine and calling him all of the names under the sun as Deb refilled her glass and demanded that they eschew all men, and then the nights as the tears ran down her face as she cried herself to sleep, locked up and hidden in the privacy of her room, trying to remember the touch of him on her body, the scent of him on her skin. It was these nights that she thought about now.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she said, tearfully, angrily, her voice filled with a rage as he reached out for her and pulled her into the familiar broadness of his chest. “No, you don’t get to hug me – you don’t get to pretend that it’s all okay.” She pushed herself away from him and moved over to the other side of the bench, putting a distance between them that all at once felt too close and too far.

“Lizzy,” he said, “I did it for you.”

She harrumphed loudly, “no, you didn’t. You don’t..” quieter now, smaller, “…you don’t be with someone like that… and then leave!” She roughly shoved her book into her bag and rose to her feet, as he looked down, unsure what to say, and then the words came to him, falling out of him furiously.

 “Where?” He yelled after her as she stomped up the steps. “Honestly? Stuck in my own personal hell and miserable, sad and lonely without you!”

She stopped stomping and she turned slowly to see him standing there, looking up at her pleadingly, breathless, hopeless. He wanted her to realise that the last few months of his self-imposed exile had been necessary, that every day he had longed to call her, hear her voice on those days when he needed the sparkle of her to pull him out of the dark. He noticed that a few visitors had started to wander over towards them, intrigued by the shouting and drama in the corner of the Rose Garden.

“You don’t get it though,” she said through her teeth, “you…you didn’t need to be without me.” She softened now, taking a tentative step back down towards him. “You didn’t need to be all of those things when I could have been there for you.”

“No,” he stated firmly. “No, you couldn’t have been, and I didn’t want you to. You needed to be without me. I was the problem.”

She looked at him questioningly and he saw the familiar tenderness in those grey eyes of hers that he had thought about so much over the last few months. He reached to take her hand in his own, surprised when she offered it willingly. It was good to feel the delicate grasp of her fingers around his, and he intertwined them into his own. She wondered why he looked so sad and then she felt those familiar prickles again, couldn’t quite tell if they were good or bad, was he trying to tell her that this wasn’t a good idea, that this was another false start, that this was all they would ever amount to.

“After the airport I started having the occasional drink, convinced myself that it was just one, and I was fine with just one, it was okay to have just one. Then why not two? Then three? Before I even realised that I was doing it I was drinking a bottle of whisky, and it didn’t even occur to me. It was the worst of times, but I hid it very well. The premiere was a bad day, it became a bad month. The only thing good to come out of it was you, because you were the reason that I knew I had to get better. I had to conquer it.”

Lizzy felt immediate remorse, “have you been to rehab?” she asked delicately, holding onto his hand tightly. “You should have told me…”

He shook his head, “Lizzy, I didn’t tell anyone.”  He paused for moment, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, “I needed to disappear for a while, so that when I came back you would know.”

She looked at his face again, searching for answers, “I would know what?” Her voice was small, unsure.

“It was all for you, Lizzy. I needed to be the man worthy of you,” it was barely a whisper, he looked up at her, he was so earnest, looked so young and scared. Her heart was filled with love for him, she was sure that if you looked closely enough you could see it rushing out of her in frantic bursts of gold and silver.

“I was so sure that that you were going to tell me to get lost, what I did was so shitty and every day I hated myself for it, regretted not telling you where I was, why I left like I did,” he explained, “but then… this morning I looked through your pictures…”

“You looked at my pictures?”

“I looked at your pictures every chance I could, wanted to see how you were, what you were doing, wanting to imagine being there with you, eating Eggs Benedict or helping you fasten that pink polka dot dress,” he looked sheepish. “Sometimes I just wanted to see your face” There was a moment and Lizzy had to refrain from holding him tight and never letting go. “It made me think that there was still a chance…”

The Rose Garden was getting busy now and it was when they heard the small squeal of recognition from the girls in the Regency costumes, who came bounding over asking for autographs and selfies from Mr Darcy himself, that they decided to move, walking over to the quieter end of the garden, they crunched on the gravel path over to the top lawn, where they could look down past the quarter-cut yew tree towards the house, the vastness of Lantern Wood behind them in the distance.

“I made a promise to myself that if I was lucky enough to see you again today that I would tell you how I felt, regardless of whether you felt the same way or not,” he said, tentatively reaching for her hand.

“I said something similar to myself last night,” she admitted, with more than a shade of embarrassment.

He smiled at her, “you see, Lizzy, I’m not the way you found me. I’ll never be the same.”

She scrutinised his face and then said flatly, “because you make my dreams come true?”

He looked confused, “what?”

“What I want, you’ve got and it might be hard to handle...”

“Are you delirious?”

“It’s Hall & Oates,” she laughed. “You were literally just quoting it, you absolute arsehole!”

He put his arm around her, “I told you I was bad at this,” he grinned.

“You are terrible at this!”

They stopped in front of the bench where he remembered her wiggling past him nearly two years earlier. He thought of all the lost time, the missed opportunities, the times he had let her slip through his fingers, and he knew that he couldn’t – that he wouldn’t -  let anything come between them again.  

 “I am,” he took her hand and kissed it softly, “but so are you.  Let’s hope that us being together will cancel the terrible out.”

“Being with you would never be terrible,” she beamed up at him, her grey eyes gleaming, “being with you would be the most wonderful thing I could possibly imagine.” She knew that she wanted to be with him, to see where this adventure they had embarked upon would lead. He made her feel so many different things, but the main thing he made her felt was loved and she wanted to spend every day loving him back. She was so close to him now, only a whisker apart, she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, could smell that close, familiar smell, felt the graze of his beard on her chin and she hesitated, her hands shaking with anticipation.

“Interesting you should say that,” he murmured, “because I am planning on being terrible _and_ wonderful with you for the rest of my life.”

There was a look, an understanding, a promise. Her laughter fell like sunshine into soul and he kissed her there on the grass under the shadow of the famous Pemberley portico, his heart full of love and hope, and his arms wrapped tightly around his dearest, loveliest Lizzy.


	31. Chapter 31

SONG: You Go to My Head (Take 1) – Billie Holiday

Lizzy gently padded through the hallway, the stone floor warm against her feet on the summer morning – she walked past the sideboard with its collection of pictures in a mismatch of frames; her favourite was the one of her and Benn at her Dad’s wedding. They were standing together, his head pressed gently against hers, her arms around his shoulders, his hands on her waist. It was a perfect moment of tenderness and happiness, captured on film. Another showed Harriet at her College Ball, dressed in emerald green and gold, next to her Imogen was throwing her leg up in the air, smiling with glee; pictures of Esther and Anya, no-longer little girls but teenagers blessed with their mothers looks and their fathers humour; Joyce and Hugh at the villa in Cap Ferrat; Charlie and his boys on the balcony at Pemberley, and hidden away was as small photograph of Lizzy and her mother, taken at the house in Ealing the day before her fourth birthday.

Joyce Hutchinson retired at the age of sixty-two, leaving Pemberley under the watchful eye of a new management team who loved the house almost as much as she did. Hugh took her travelling and they spent summers in France, surrounded by their blended family of children and grandchildren. Eventually Mrs Darcy got used to be called ‘Your Grace’, but she did thoroughly reprimand her husband once when he popped to Harrods for a pint of milk. She never got used to wearing a tiara at formal events, but she did get used to being loved deeply by the man she adored every single day. Their wedding had been small and simple, held in a semi-private part of the garden which seemed to have been designed to naturally lend itself to the occasion; accompanied by a string quartet who had played ‘I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You’, Joyce had walked down the aisle with her sons on either side as the scent of the rose garden planted by Lady Anne Darcy floated across towards the ceremony. “Hello, you,” he said, unable to quite believe that they were finally doing this.  

Later in the evening, as the families sat in the marquee that had been erected on the West Front lawn, Charlie would declare that this was a love story that had been forty years in the making. Joyce had smiled at Hugh, all at once the reverent twelve-year-old who had visited Pemberley with a papery guidebook and now as the Duchess. Joyce’s own history was now written into that of the house that she loved – not just as the woman who had managed it for so long but now as part of the family who had built it. Pemberley had always been magic, and as Hugh pulled her onto the dancefloor, she knew that whilst the journey to get to this point had not been easy, she stepped into her destiny knowing that every choice had brought her to this moment. They danced under the twinkling fairylights hanging from the roof of the marquee as their loved ones stood cheering from the sidelines. She saw Gareth and James, the two boys who had grown into men almost overnight, both fathers now to adorable children; the Darcy boys – both handsome and so very tall, looking like their father; Harriet, the girl she had known since birth, blossoming into a true descendant of the Darcy women who had gone before her; Imogen, stronger than she appeared and radiant in the evening light. And then, happy and giggling, there was Elizabeth.

Lizzy found that it was always a lot of fun when the man of your dreams was in your bed, or kissing you on the lawn in some grand, romantic gesture like the film star he was, but it was always a bit disconcerting when you realised that he liked to leave dirty socks on the bedroom floor, loved cricket to a level of boredom and would argue about practically anything if you let him get away with it, especially if he thought it would get you riled. Sometimes he would swan about the house in a majestic manner, huffing and puffing; she would laugh with his daughters, Esther and Anya, at his grumpy moods, which got him even grumpier, before sending him off to his Man Cave in the loft whilst they ordered pizza and watched a film without him. He would return a few hours later and she would pull him into his place on the sofa, throw her legs over him and stroke the curl behind his ear until he nuzzled her gently and they would go to bed. The girls would roll their eyes at each other and turn up the volume on the television.

Sam and Imogen broke up just after Hugh’s wedding, but they remained firm friends and were often found wandering up to The Cage together or hanging out in the Ranger station. It was only when Imogen got accepted onto a course at a college in Preston that Sam realised what he felt for her, declaring himself in front of everyone at the Staff Summer Party after two fruit ciders and a sambuca. Imogen wasn’t sure what she felt but decided that she was happy enough in Derbyshire – her boarding school accent even gaining a soft northern twang, which she quite liked. She had swapped her heels for heifers and nights out on the town for afternoons walking to the pub with the small group of friends that she had accumulated since arriving.

Imogen fully believed that fate had smiled upon her that terrible afternoon, when tired and empty, she had taken too many sleeping tablets, drifting off into the light before being brought crashing back to earth; she was meant to return to Pemberley, was meant to start the new chapter of her story in the historic lands that had belonged to her family for centuries. Home, she thought, every time she crossed the railway bridge and juddered over the cattlegrid; not just the place where she lived, but the place where her heart resided.

Harriet decided to stay at home, rather than live in halls, she loved the little flat at the top of the tower and didn’t see any point in moving her life across the county in cardboard boxes for nine months of the year, when she could easily commute to the Textile Design course that she was undertaking at the University of Derby. With the approval of her mum, she also changed her name to Wickham-Darcy. Granny Wickham had never known how much Lizzy had pushed Matthew to put his name on Harriet’s birth certificate, how much she had wanted him to recognise the baby who was his mirror image as his own, and he hadn’t realised how much he had wanted it until it was too late. Now nearly eighteen years later, Harriet embraced it and the family branches of the Wickhams and the Darcys became more permanently entangled. Living together in the small flat, Harriet and Imogen were often seen driving a little too fast down the driveway in the yellow Mini, singing Wannabe by the Spice Girls and drinking coffee out of travel mugs as they headed towards campus.

Matthew Wickham stayed in Malibu with Tamsin, her fame in the US eclipsing his own and reducing him in some ways to the position of holding her handbag whilst she pouted and smiled for the cameras. She was still devoted to him and, despite the reservations of a few close friends, they worked as a couple, with enough love and mutual respect to build something truly solid. He spent lazy days writing, giving himself a few years off, wanting to spend time with his children. He was as surprised as anyone when his little pet project, written in ten days and filmed on a budget by a small production company, was nominated for the Best Original Screenplay at the Oscars and even more surprised when he won. Linda, still his stalwart and confidante, asked for more money, better benefits and a bigger office, already anxious for the busy years ahead.

Benn went back to theatre, it had always been his first love and there was something about standing on a stage in front of an audience and feeling the immediate emotional response that kept him safe and grounded in a way that hiding on film sets in trailers had never been able to do. He began to direct; finding interesting and unique tales and constructing wonderful narratives that truly made people think. It was his production of ‘Cat’s Paw’ by a new writer, Louisa Garrett, that caught the attention of critics – it moved to the larger theatres of Manchester, then the West End, before winning an Olivier Award and professional acclaim for the man whose portrayal of Mr Darcy had been called ‘soppy and brooding’ by the film critic in the Daily Mail. Despite the success, Benn continued to base himself at the small theatre in Romiley, where people gradually forgot that he had been in the movies and his face blended into the crowd on the high street. He also loved the convenience of being able to commute from the cosy, modest cottage on the outskirts of the estate at Pemberley, never being too far from the woman who would instinctively hold his hand at night whenever he reached for it.

Lizzy and Benn would go for long, meandering walks across the parklands watching as the wind brushed through the grass, the light catching the rustling blades and the spectral image of imagined rabbits darting across the moorland. Laughing, talking, giggling they would walk back to their house in time for dinner with their dog, Jethro, who had been adopted by them after a heated discussion where all family members had an opinion.  The kitchen would be filled with children and sisters and they would gather around the large table, eating and playing games until Lizzy would lose too much money at Monopoly and tell them all to go home, Harriet shrieking with laughter, as Benn called her a bad sport. She would storm off in a huff, usually, and he would placate her with coffee and cake, and by doing the washing up, which was, he found, always the quickest way to her heart.

It was nearly midnight amid the celebrations of the Darcy New Year’s Eve Ball when, casually and without ceremony, Benn presented her with a sapphire ring that had once belonged to Mabel Darcy and asked her to marry him. As he got down on one knee in the splendour of the decorated banqueting hall where they had first danced to Mr Beveridge’s Maggot, he knew that he would never be her firsts in so many things. He knew that he had come too late, when all these things had already been woven into her, were already lines written in the book that he had read, and he loved the woman she was because of all the firsts that had already been, but he wanted all of her lasts in whatever form they came. His gaze had never wavered as she nodded yes - “when did you get so good at this?” – and they kissed until the clock stuck twelve and the tune of Auld Lang Syne echoed out into the courtyard.

They celebrated their nuptials in the small chapel at Pemberley the following May, much to the delight of the press who called it the Double Darcy wedding, and reported it alongside a picture of Colin Firth, obviously. They honeymooned in Paris and nine months later found they were starting all over again; Austen Fitzwilliam-Darcy had his father’s temperament, unlike his sister Elspeth, who arrived a year later, kicking and screaming and very much like her mother. It had been hard at first - the sleeplessness, the night feeds, and then entertaining a toddler whilst holding a newborn. But when Lizzy looked at her husband, sleeping on the couch, with their daughter on his chest and their son nestled in the crook of his arm, Billie Holiday crooning in the background, she knew that she would not change any of this; that this was where she was meant to be, raising another generation of Darcys on the ancient hunting lands.

A family tree has roots that run deep and dark into the earth that supports it, trailing its way through history, the branches weaving and wending their way through time itself, the leaves sprouting, blooming, falling, before returning to the ground and sustaining the tree with life before the never-ending cycle begins again. It was all here in the crook of the land, in the reflection of the stream that trickled down from the peaks, in the arching curve of the hills that had dominated the geography of the land for centuries before Piers D’Arcy had claimed it for his own. And so, it was as it would always be, the players would change, the roles they played would alter, but the gentle sweeping route through the landscape which would lead them all to back home, layer upon layer, year upon year.  The house nestled in the valley would continue to weave its magic into the fabric of the family who loved it, Pemberley would always remain as constant as the stars in the sky.

Elizabeth Fitzwilliam-Darcy walked out of the patio door and cheekily ruffled her husband’s hair, he quickly grabbed her hand, leaning in for kiss as he pegged out the washing in the privacy of their garden in the early morning sunshine. It was going to be a beautiful day and she knew that the house and gardens would be busy. He handed her the Cath Kidston scarf from the washing basket and she disappeared into the house to prepare; fastening her pearls, pinning her hair and ready to play her role as Lady Darcy to perfection, as always.


End file.
